


Come Forth Into the Storm

by zythepsary



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Casual Sex, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I could bed half the men in this castle."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A joke turns into a friendly wager between Dorian and the Iron Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Forth Into the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a loose interpretation of _an ill-considered night after drinking_ and [a kink meme request](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=60864762). The title comes from _A Line-Storm Song_ by Robert Frost. (I've spent most of my life in New England, so I am required by law to read or reference his work at least once a month.)
> 
> The gorgeous art was provided by [Hyliari](http://hyliari.tumblr.com/), who is a goddamned delight. They are embedded throughout the fic, and can also be found on [Tumblr](http://hyliari.tumblr.com/post/150307314605/adoribull-minibang-illustrations-for-zythepsarys).
> 
> Endless thanks to [sunspeared](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared), for her always excellent beta work and encouragement.

The Herald's Rest was nearly empty, but Dorian had a bottle to finish and a Qunari to best.

"Another, please," said Dorian, pushing his empty glass at Cabot. He fumbled at his pockets, wondering where he'd put his coin. "And one for my—my dear friend. The one sitting next to me. With the horns."

He gestured at his own head, mimicking the shape of the Iron Bull's horns.

"You," said Bull, as he caught Dorian's hand and guided it to the correct pocket, "are gonna be so miserable tomorrow."

Dorian dropped a handful of coins on top of the bar and shook his head. Bull's face distorted into smudges. "Nonsense. Me, hungover? The mere _thought_ —"

"You'll be sick," Bull interrupted. He planted his elbow on the bar and leaned into his hand, chuckling. "And drunk 'til noon. All because you think you can out-drink a _Qunari_."

"I'll just leave the bottle," Cabot muttered. He poured whiskey into each of their glasses before pocketing the coin and disappearing into the kitchen.

Dorian reached for his glass, staring at the muddy shape of his reflection in the whiskey. He dragged his thumb along the rim, willing the seasick feeling to fade away. It didn't.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No," said Dorian, and drank. His throat burned, but it was going to be worth it. He was a _mage_. He could sober up in seconds if he needed to, while Bull would be trapped with an ever-growing headache and daily duties in the sun. "I think you might be."

"Not about you," said Bull, which wasn't the worst line he had come up with this evening. Dorian raised his glass in appreciation. "Drinking pretty hard tonight, Vint. Bad day?"

"No," Dorian answered. It had been a boring day, filled with simple meals and hours of research. Sera was off on an expedition with Adaar, so there hadn't been any pranks to clean up after, and hardly anyone was vandalizing his personal quarters or his spot in the library anymore. "But you said I couldn't keep up with you, and I must protect my—my—"

"Pride?" Bull suggested. He was looking at Dorian over his glass, smiling. It made Dorian's chest feel too warm.

Dorian pointed at him. "That's the one."

"You are lying down, though."

"I am sitting," said Dorian. For emphasis, he kicked the stool with his heel.

"Your head's in a puddle of booze."

Dorian huffed. Untrue. There had been a small spill, but he had wiped the counter before slumping over it. And he had used one of Cabot's little towels. He wasn't some sort of unwashed heathen, using his sleeves to soak up someone's forgotten drink.

"You're muttering," Bull said. His shoulders shook with laughter.

Dorian grunted. He turned his head to the other side, grimacing. His neck was beginning to ache.

"Giving up?"

"Hardly," Dorian told the counter. He wanted to close his eyes, but he feared what might happen to his head.

Another drink or two. That was all he needed, and he would win. And then he could sleep.

"I'll move over," said Bull. He pushed his drink down the bar, navigating around Dorian's head and arms, and stood. There was a mumbled curse, followed by an unhappy groan as he stretched. He clapped Dorian's shoulder. "I like looking at you."

"Who wouldn't?" Dorian murmured. He peered at the Bull, who was pretending not to use his shoulder for balance.

Bull hopped onto the empty stool and gave Dorian's shoulder one last pat before he stretched his legs. One knee cracked. He winced.

"Your drink," said Dorian, pushing the glass closer to Bull. He twisted his arm into an awkward position, trying to search for the bottle, but it was difficult to do without looking. Bull leaned over to fetch it, nearly covering Dorian with his bulk. He was very warm. And large.

Maker, what a thought.

Dorian shoved that into the back of his mind. He could wonder about that later, when he wasn't using a bar counter as a pillow.

"Why're you staying up with me?" Bull asked. He had already reached the point where he spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word, and now he was starting to mumble. "That guy—he was looking at you. Could've gone to bed with him."

Dorian frowned. He couldn't remember anyone's eyes lingering for too long. "Who?"

"That guy," said Bull again, which wasn't very helpful. When Dorian glowered at him, he went on, "Short hair. Freckles. He was sitting near—"

"Oh, _him_. No." Dorian shook his head, nose knocking awkwardly against the counter. "No. Too young." Far too young. He was unscarred and cheerful, with no facial hair to hide his youth. "Barely off the teat."

"Oh," said Bull. He nodded a few times. "You like older guys?"

"No preference."

This wasn't a conversation Dorian could remember having very often. When he was younger, he hadn't had many friends to discuss these things with. Felix had inquired about it once or twice, and Mae always liked giving him a space to talk freely. An old lover had asked once, but that had been out of spite. And there had been Sera, of course, who hit him with rapid-fire questions one day in an attempt to find something that would make him squirm.

"But he's not even twenty," Dorian added.

"Oh, shit," said Bull, frowning. He raised his glass. "To old men, then."

Dorian snorted. He fumbled at his own glass and managed to pick it up by the rim. "Cheers."

They drank. Dorian licked the last of the whiskey from his lips and pointed at the bottle.

"You haven't spilled any on yourself yet," said Bull. He poured a splash of whiskey into Dorian's empty glass. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank," said Dorian, prepared to go on and on about his standards of cleanliness, but he needed to stop and fight a hiccup. He waited, lips clamped together, until it passed. "Thank you."

They drank in silence for a long minute. Behind them, two soldiers accused each other of cheating at cards until Cabot hollered at them to be quiet.

Bull nudged at Dorian's knee with his own. "What about Haywood."

"Haywood?"

"Enchanter Haywood."

"Ah, yes," said Dorian, remembering.

Enchanter Victor Haywood. One of the liaisons between the mages and Josephine's small army of ambassadors. Dorian had met him in Haven, where they had several long discussions about the differences between Circles in Tevinter and everyone else, the proper way to drink cheap beer, and what materials should be used for staff construction. It had seemed natural to end up in bed together at least once. Victor had made it clear that he intended to keep their affair casual, since he had seen too many of his friends perish in the war to grow close with someone. That had been disappointing, but Dorian appreciated that Victor mentioned it before they'd even kissed. Finding such courtesy was rare.

Victor still remained in Skyhold, helping the younger mage refugees with their studies and assisting Vivienne when she required it. They had spoken only a few times since Haven, but they were still friendly. Not friendly enough to continue sleeping together, though. What a shame. It had been spectacular fun.

"We shared a bed," said Dorian. "Nothing more."

Pity flickered over Bull's face. "You okay about that?"

Dorian shifted his weight. They were drifting towards a serious discussion now, and he doubted he would enjoy it. He didn't really want to be reminded of the things he was missing. The things he had always wanted.

Besides, he was meant to be a cheerful drunk. Not a maudlin one.

"I suppose," said Dorian slowly. Bull knew of his past—the brothels, the hidden encounters at someone else's estate, his father's disappointment—but still, he hesitated with how much he wanted to divulge. "I'm…accustomed to that sort of arrangement."

Bull nodded. His expression was carefully blank. "All those years spent sewing wild oats."

" _Sowing_ ," Dorian corrected. Under that mask, there was a smile that Bull couldn't hide. He pointed an accusatory finger at Bull. "If you make a joke about threading a needle, I'm leaving."

"I wouldn't," said Bull, feigning offense.

"You would."

"I would _never_."

"You would," came Cabot's voice from the kitchen.

"Told you," Dorian muttered, as his elbow slipped off the counter.

Bull caught his arm, holding him upright. He let go when Dorian grumbled at him. "Does it bother you?"

"Your bad jokes?" Dorian shot back. He rested his hand on his thigh, flexing his fingers. "Hardly. I'm immune."

"Casual sex," Bull said, without humor. His eye stayed fixed on Dorian. Studying him, like he could see into his mind and pull out the answer. It was a bit disconcerting.

Feeling stubborn, Dorian met his gaze. He waited a moment before answering, "No."

"No?"

Dorian shook his head. Sex was a _delight_ , to put it mildly. He could satisfy his needs on his own, but it was far more enjoyable with someone else. In his life, he'd had several encounters with men that he'd gladly repeat, simply for the joy of it. Even in Tevinter, he'd shared beds with good, kind men.

On the other hand, there were others he would avoid, because he knew he would grow attached. History would repeat itself: the attraction, the wanting, the longing, knowing that what he wanted was unlikely to happen, and ultimately, the sorrow. It was better to acknowledge his sentiments, inquire about the other man's feelings, and then go their separate ways before anyone was hurt. It certainly saved everyone a lot of time.

"No," Dorian said again. "But I have found it's rare to expect anything more than that."

"Oh," Bull said. He glanced at his glass and touched it, tracing the rim."You're allowed to."

Dorian's throat tightened. He thought of Rilienus, and how lonely it was to want. His father's guards at the Abrexis home, kicking the door in.

"Yes," said Dorian, forcing the word between his teeth. He turned his grimace into a smile. "But I enjoy sex far too much to deny myself the opportunity."

Bull's face softened. He clinked their glasses together.

"I'll drink to that."

"I imagine you will," Dorian mumbled. He looked at the remaining whiskey in his glass.

If there was anything the Bull truly enjoyed more than a good fight or a terrible joke, it was sex. That was obvious to anyone who had spent more than five minutes with him. Dorian wondered if that part of his mercenary role had been difficult to adjust to, since the Qunari handled sex like a visit to the healer or the armorer. They weren't supposed to desire that sort of intimacy.

He raised the glass to his mouth, remembering a Chantry sister with pink cheeks. _Maker, I've never been touched like that. Not even by my own hands_. And a soldier, posted above Skyhold's gates, murmuring quietly with a friend. _Never been so sore. Or so happy._

Dorian had the opportunity to know for himself, if he wanted. Bull had made that clear. He was tempted. For curiosity's sake, at least. They had come close a few times on nights like this, drinking until it was late enough to be early. Dorian couldn't recall why they hadn't. Perhaps the timing hadn't been right.

The Bull's voice cut through his thoughts. He was rattling off a list of names.

Dorian blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Warren, Rodak, Deyris, and Katari," Bull repeated.

Dorian stared, unsure of what that was supposed to mean. It dawned on him a moment later. "Are you asking me if I've fucked those men, or if I'd like to?"

"Both."

"I have not," Dorian answered. He considered the second question.

Warren was a typical soldier—tall and strong, always carrying a greatsword on his back—but Dorian assumed he was only interested in women. Perhaps Bull knew something that he didn't.

Dorian often saw Rodak in the gardens, treating the growing plants with care and greeting anyone who walked by with a friendly smile. It was a bit strange to see a dwarf gardening, but he had lived on the surface for most of his life, and he knew alchemy as well as any of the mages.

Deyris was one of Leliana's people, which meant he had an infinite supply of knives strapped to his limbs at any given time. He was quiet and usually kept to himself, hiding his ears under a cloak, but Dorian had heard him sing a few times in Caer Bronach. He had a lovely voice.

And there was Katari, one of the few Tal-Vashoth in the Inquisition. He joined other mercenaries on expeditions into the various ruins scattered throughout Thedas. The first time they met, he managed to turn a compliment on Dorian's riding style into a filthy comment about his thighs, so now he flushed and hurried in the opposite direction whenever they happened to be in the same camp.

They were all intelligent and attractive, which was the bare minimum of traits Dorian looked for in a partner. He shrugged.

"I have not," Dorian said again. "But I could."

Bull chuckled. "All of them?"

"Look at me," said Dorian, gesturing at himself. He didn't mind how Bull's eye lingered. "I'm handsome. I'm a dangerous mage from the place of all evils, _Tevinter_. And—" He paused to drink and point at himself again. "And I'm good at—no, _better_ than good. I'm—"

"Bet you couldn't," Bull interrupted, his voice stumbling into a higher pitch. It sounded like he was mocking Sera.

"Bet I _could_ ," Dorian shot back. This was childish, but he hardly cared. "I could bed half the men in this castle."

"So could I," Bull pointed out. " _And_ most of the women, so I'd win."

"Unfair advantage on your part," said Dorian. He could hear the last of the soldiers stumbling outside. "The numbers are in your favor."

"I'd win," said Bull again. "Even without women."

He was drinking from the bottle now. A hefty swallow; Dorian's throat burned in sympathy. He offered the bottle, but Dorian tutted and pushed his glass closer. Bull nodded—and kept nodding, swaying slightly in his seat—and poured a splash of whiskey into it. Not very much.

Dorian studied the glass. Bull had been serving him smaller and smaller amounts. He was probably going to start pushing water next. Sera called him _mum_ when he did that.

He drank the whiskey in one swallow, to prove that he could.

"I'd win," Bull said, almost to himself.

"You—you haven't spent that much time," said Dorian, all too aware of how his words were crashing awkwardly into each other, "having sex that wasn't scheduled." Maker, that was a difficult word to say. "You don't know seduction."

Bull chuckled. "Don't need it."

"Yes, yes, everyone lines up at your door for a ride on your cock," Dorian muttered. He aimed the last part at what he knew existed between the Bull's thighs. Being on the road with the Inquisition left few opportunities for modesty.

"Talk slower," said Bull, his voice dipping low.

And there was the opportunity, yet again.

The Bull had flirted, offered, and made clear that Dorian should tell him to stop, if necessary. Dorian responded with dismissals or encouragement in equal order, and Bull seemed pleased with both. At first, he had been annoyed, assuming that Bull only said such things to laugh at his reaction, but once he knew the offers were sincere, he didn't mind. In truth, he enjoyed it.

Bull knew how to flatter a man. Dorian couldn't deny that.

"Everyone," said Dorian, watching Bull's eye focus on his mouth. He hooked his ankle around the stool, nudging his knee into Bull's thigh. "Lines up at your door."

Slowly, Bull inched his hand towards Dorian's knee. When Dorian bumped him again and made an impatient noise, he fit his hand over the knee, squeezing. His palm was a hot brand, even through Dorian's trousers.

"For a ride," said Dorian, pressing his leg closer, "on your cock."

Bull did nothing but stare. Dorian could admit to feeling a wild thrill at the attention, focused directly on him. It was easier, like this. Alone. Just them, and whatever might happen next. He could imagine a world where he followed Bull up to his quarters and stayed until morning.

Not tonight, though. Dorian liked seeing how far he could push. He suspected Bull did, too.

[](http://hyliari.tumblr.com/post/150307314605/adoribull-minibang-illustrations-for-zythepsarys)

"Still," said Dorian, drawing his leg back. Bull let his hand fall away without comment. "I'm sure I could fuck more men than you."

"In a day?" Bull asked. He snorted. "Humans don't have my kind of stamina."

"In _any_ given time frame."

Before Bull could reply, Cabot poked his head around the doorway and told them to leave.

"Apologies," Dorian murmured, wincing. He hadn't realized it was that late.

"Tab," said Bull. Slowly, as though he was unsure of the word. "How much?"

"Tomorrow," said Cabot wearily. "I don't feel like counting." He left the kitchen and shouted the rest over his shoulder before Bull could respond. "And you're gonna tip well."

The door shut. They were alone. The last of the fire spat and disappeared into smoke.

"I'll pay," said Dorian, as he often tried to do. "Tomorrow. I started the drinking, you know."

"Nah," said Bull, like he always did. He stood, one hand planted on the counter for balance. "I got it."

He sucked in a quick breath, groaning. His fingers scraped against the bar. He blinked, swaying.

Dorian had never seen him this drunk. He had never seen a _Qunari_ this drunk. Towering over him, wobbling, one eye barely able to focus on what was in front of him. Bull would probably be sick twice before breakfast.

Dorian laughed until his stomach ached.

"Alright, big guy," said Bull, but he was hiding a smile. He grabbed Dorian's shoulder and helped him off the stool. "You okay to walk back? Sera's room is empty. She won't care."

Dorian debated his choices. Stumbling through the courtyards, the castle corridors, and arguing with an old iron look—or sleeping in Sera's excuse for a bed. It was a close decision, but in the end, he decided that the stairs weren't as precarious as a dark corridor.

They walked up the stairs together. Bull insisted on guiding him to Sera's room, as though Dorian couldn't manage the long journey on his own.

"G'night," said Bull, giving Dorian's shoulder a hard clap. "Don't puke on her stuff."

Dorian grumbled at that. He opened the door and peered inside. It was a disaster, as it always was.

"I won't," he said. He stepped inside, flattening his palm against the wall for balance, and turned. Bull was still wobbling on his feet. "We're going to start keeping count tomorrow."

Bull's face broke into a broad smile. He bowed his head, chuckling to himself. "I'd win."

"You _wouldn't_ ," said Dorian, as he slowly eased the door shut, "so you should get used to idea of losing now rather than later. Good night, Bull."

He collapsed onto Sera's makeshift bed and waited for Bull's clumsy footsteps to fade away before positioning his hand at his temple. Slowly— _painfully_ —he withdrew the alcohol from his body until the room stank of it. Such a spell meant losing precious sleep, but at least he was relatively sober.

Dorian rolled onto his side, tugging a worn blanket up to his shoulders. He was asleep in minutes.

* * *

The spell worked, as Dorian expected it would. The only pain he felt was a crick in his neck. He had no idea how Sera managed to sleep in that horrible little bed for more than one night.

After breakfast with Vivienne—honeyed tea and sweet scones—Dorian headed to the library. With no expedition to prepare for, he needed to begin combing through the Laeca family tree. Attempting to track down Corypheus's original name meant plenty of research with very old and dusty books, which was an excellent way to spend the morning.

A few hours later, he was still struggling to parse some of the worst handwriting he had ever encountered. He threw the book onto the ground and slumped in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. They burned, threatening to well up when he pressed his fingers against his eyelids. He would have to ask someone to transcribe the blighted thing. His eyes couldn't handle the strain.

"I'll take a look at that for you, shall I?"

A woman's voice. Dorian lowered his hand and recognized one of the many researchers. She was standing in front of him, hands on her hips and a practiced flat expression. They had worked together before, but he couldn't remember her name, and too much time had passed for him to feel comfortable about asking for it.

"If you wouldn't mind," said Dorian. He leaned down to pick up the book and brushed the dust and dirt from the cover before handing it to her. "I'm not usually this childish. You'll understand when you see it."

"I'm used to it, ser," the woman said. She flipped through the journal, wincing. "Ah. I see. This…this will take some time."

"As long as you need," Dorian assured her. He had several other books on the Laeca family to read through until then. If that wasn't enough, Leliana always seemed to have information from Tevinter for him to sort through the moment he had free time. "It's not an emergency."

"Well," the woman said, tucking the journal under her arm. She jerked her head in a curt bow. "I'll get started, then."

She turned on her heel and disappeared into a row of bookshelves.

"Good luck," Dorian called after her. He leaned over to the bookshelf beside his chair, thumbing through the titles until he found what he was looking for.

Some time later, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. He glanced up, expecting Cullen or one of his lieutenants.

It was the Bull, carrying a few sealed letters in one hand and a waterskin in the other. He raised the waterskin to his lips and drank heavily. Water spilled around his mouth and onto his chest, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. He greeted Dorian with a small wave as he passed.

"Morning," said Bull. His voice was rougher than usual. Dorian fought a smirk.

" _Good_ morning," said Dorian, far louder than necessary. Bull's shoulders shifted into a grimace. "And how are you feeling?"

Bull grunted and disappeared behind a shelf. Dorian heard him trudge up the stairs towards the ravens.

 _Can't keep up with a Qunari_. Dorian snorted. As though he hadn't spent the better part of his youth drinking his days and nights away. Bull ought to know better; he often pressed Dorian for details about his sordid younger days. Just last week, they had spent hours on the battlements overlooking the gardens, trading stories.

What a peculiar friendship they had. Dorian couldn't have imagined it.

At first, neither of them had trusted each other or even enjoyed the other's company. Dorian remembered being more frightened than curious. Probably because Bull was enormously tall, an enemy of his country, and swung an axe that weighed as much as a human. He was very good in a fight, which only made Dorian consider the possibility of a battle from the other side, and he was much smarter than he pretended to be. And he was a _spy_ —

Well. Had been, anyway. Bull didn't belong to the Qunari anymore.

Dorian had reached out to Bull in the weeks after that long day on the coast, wanting to offer comfort in whatever way he could. He knew how it felt to leave, and yet want to return so badly that he was numb to everything else. He understood that kind of betrayal. Perhaps a little more common ground and time was all they had needed.

And there was the flirting, which was a pleasant way to entertain himself while they spent hours trudging through the mud. Certainly better than listening to Solas hum old songs.

Dorian glanced down at his book, trying to remember where he'd stopped reading.

A few minutes later, he heard Bull's footsteps again. Then, a quiet, "Hey, Ida."

"Hello, Bull," said the researcher. Dorian repeated her name to himself until he was certain he would remember it. "Long night? You look terrible."

"I drank. A lot."

"With anyone in particular?"

"Yeah, that grumpy mage in the corner."

Ida laughed. "Oh, he's not so bad."

"Thank you, Ida," Dorian called. He heard her laugh again. "You're very kind."

"Don't let it get to your head," Bull said, loud enough for his voice to carry past the bookshelves. The floorboards creaked again. "What're you working on?"

"Transcribing. For Dorian, actually."

"Yeah? What is it?"

Ida began to explain the history of the Laeca family. Bull interjected with questions and comments. It would sound casual to any passerby, but Dorian recognized flirtation when he heard it. He chuckled quietly to himself, remembering the Bull's eye, hazy with drink. _And most of the women_.

Dorian could only recall pieces of their conversation last night, but he certainly remembered that one. _Unfair advantage on your part._ He wondered if Bull did, too, and if he still insisted on winning. As though he would.

Eventually, Bull wished Ida luck with her work and headed for the stairs.

"Our wager," said Dorian, his eyes still fixed on the text. The floor creaked under Bull's boots. "Did we say one week, or two?"

Bull paused. Dorian heard him drink what was left of his waterskin, then shove it into his pocket.

"We didn't," Bull answered. He took a step closer and tugged Dorian's book down, away from his face. "I'm surprised you remember."

"I told you," said Dorian, slipping a piece of cloth between the pages to mark his place. He shut the book and folded his hands together on top of the cover. "I can handle my liquor far better than the people you associate with."

"Yeah, mercs aren't known for drinking," said Bull dryly. A faint smile flickered over his face. "I didn't think you were serious."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Dorian asked. It was a question he ought to ask himself first, but he found he was curious to see where this would go. Bull liked to flirt and tease, especially when Dorian started it. "Do you doubt my talents?"

"No," Bull answered. "Just didn't think you'd like to make that a game."

"It's not a game," Dorian said. They were not children. "It's a wager. There's skill involved."

"There's skill in a game of cards, too."

"We must be playing cards with different people," said Dorian. He settled deeper into the chair and lowered his voice. "I rarely find myself reaching climax during a game of Wicked Grace."

The faint smile on Bull's face grew wider. "Oh, I get it. You like to win."

"Of course I do. Who doesn't?"

"Okay," said Bull. He studied Dorian for a long moment, then jerked his head towards the stairs. "Let's talk about this somewhere private. Your room?"

Dorian hid his surprise under what he hoped was a thoughtful expression. He hadn't expected this. He had been waiting for a joke about the sound Cullen made when he had a particularly good hand, or how easily Bull could find pleasure. "People will talk."

"No shame in that."

"The cellar," said Dorian, appreciating Bull's comment as much as he ignored it. "It's cold. No sunlight. Quiet, too."

"Sounds good," said Bull, nodding. He turned on his heel and left.

Dorian didn't have to follow, but he wanted to. He returned the book to its place on the shelf and informed Ida that he would be back shortly before he left the library. Bull was waiting for him at the cellar entrance.

"Shit," said Bull, openly surprised. "You're serious."

"I am," said Dorian. He wasn't quite sure why, but the more they talked, the more he convinced himself that this was a good idea. Well, perhaps not a _good_ one. It was certainly interesting.

They descended into the cellar.

"How's your head?" Bull asked. He tipped his head, keeping his horns away from the wall.

"Perfectly fine."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

" _How_?"

"A little spell," Dorian admitted. "I removed the alcohol from my body before I went to sleep."

"You cheat," said Bull, but he was grinning. He waited for Dorian to reach the end of the stairs before he continued down the hall. "So, you can't heal a wound or fix a broken bone, but you can stop your hangovers?"

This was beginning to sound like a conversation Dorian once had with Alexius. He grimaced at the memory.

"I'll take that as a yes," Bull went on. His boots scraped loudly against the stone. "Can you fix mine?"

"Probably not," Dorian answered. Any spell that worked on a living person was tricky; there were simply too many variables to consider, especially when that spell altered a person's body. He supposed he could try, but he might also make the headache worse, or fail to account for something in the Qunari physiology. "You're better off asking Vivienne."

"I tried," Bull muttered. He rubbed at his face, pushing his fingers into the skin around his empty eye. "She won't do it anymore."

"Ha!"

"Ha," said Bull, sighing. He nodded at the door to Adaar's private wine cellar. "There. I have a key."

"She trusts you with that?" Dorian asked. Adaar and Bull were close friends, but she hoarded her expensive liquors, and Bull could drink a tavern dry.

Bull retrieved the key from his pockets, tutting. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"No, but fine brandy does."

"Ask nicely," said Bull. He opened the door, gesturing for Dorian to step inside. "I'm sure she'll share."

Inside, barrels of beer lined the walls. The shelves had been repurposed for wine and liquor bottles, to hold all the gifts Adaar received. A few were old and dusty, with labels too faded to read. There was one that Dorian recognized from a storeroom in Redcliffe.

"So," said Bull, as he closed the door. "Rules?"

"Rules," Dorian repeated. His fingers were flexing, rubbing absently against his palm. He clasped his hands together and leaned against a barrel, trying to calm the anxious energy before it spiraled out of control. "I'll start. No women. As I said, it's an unfair advantage for you."

Bull's eyebrows knotted together. He leaned against a barrel opposite Dorian and folded his arms across his chest. "None? At all?"

"They wouldn't count towards the wager," Dorian answered. "I'm not going to forbid you from sleeping with a woman, if that's what you're inquiring."

"I might not have the time," said Bull, looking smug. "How long? One week?"

"Let's make it two," Dorian countered, if only to see how Bull would react. Bull nodded. "Two, then. We can begin once we're done in here, and end at midnight."

"Okay. Two weeks," said Bull, extending his index finger. He tapped his middle, adding, "No women," and then the next finger. "I say any act is valid, as long as it's more than a kiss. And the same guy only counts as one, no matter how many times you fuck him."

Dorian nodded. "I shall keep strict records for you to validate."

"I like the sound of that," said Bull. His voice rumbled in Dorian's chest. "Do you?"

"I suppose we should discuss the wager regularly," Dorian said, for only partially selfish reasons. He would want to know how far ahead or behind Bull was. Hearing tales of his deeds was only a bonus. "Do you agree?"

Bull nodded. "Is there anyone you don't want me fooling around with?"

"I, er," said Dorian, caught off-guard by the question. There wasn't anyone he would object to, but he didn't know why Bull had asked. "No? I don't have any ex-lovers in Skyhold."

"Your enchanter," Bull reminded him.

"I meant—nothing serious," said Dorian. That odd anxiety was creeping back, so he added, "Sleep with him, if you're interested. He knows what he's doing."

"Okay," said Bull, using the gentle voice that Dorian always wrestled with hating. "Noted. But I'm thinking we shouldn't fuck anyone close. Cullen, Blackwall, Solas—"

"I hadn't planned on it," said Dorian. Cullen was handsome but too focused on his own troubles at the moment, Blackwall disliked him and rarely bathed, and Solas would probably make ten comments about Tevinter's history with elves before Dorian could say anything. "Besides, I thought they favored women."

"One of 'em really likes staring at your ass," Bull replied. "I won't tell you which."

"Only one?" Dorian said. He would wager it was Blackwall. "Very well. None of the Inquisitor's fabled companions. I can agree to that. Are there any men you would like me to avoid?"

Bull considered the question for a minute. He chewed on his tongue.

"Nah," he said finally. "Can't think of anyone."

"Not even Krem? Or Stitches?" Dorian asked. He had assumed Bull would request them, at least. "You really wouldn't mind if I fucked my way through a large part of your company?"

"Wouldn't be the first time someone did," said Bull cheerfully. "Yeah, that's fine. Just don't make promises you aren't planning on keeping, okay? I don't need to hear them bitching about you on our next job."

"I wouldn't," said Dorian. He would never. What a cruel thing to do to someone. "Is that it?"

Bull tapped his fingers, murmuring the rules under his breath. "Yeah. I think so."

"Well," said Dorian, pushing himself away from the barrel. He glanced around, wondering if Adaar ever left glasses down here. "Shall we toast to our success?"

Bull looked vaguely ill at the idea. His answer was a mangled, "No."

"Ah, right," said Dorian. He pressed his lips together to muffle a chuckle. "We'll shake on it."

He offered his hand. Bull reached out and grasped his forearm.

"May the best man win," said Dorian. Bull's fingers were hot against his bare skin.

"I plan on it."

*

Regrettably, Dorian's afternoon was not spent enjoying himself with any of the handsome men around Skyhold. There was reading to complete, meetings with Leliana regarding some of her agents in Tevinter, his weekly visit to Alexius in the dungeons, new staff designs with Dagna, and an hour long argument with Solas about something so pointless that Dorian couldn't be bothered to remember it.

By evening, he was exhausted and wanted a warm body next to his, so he went to the Herald's Rest. Inside, soldiers were drinking and dancing. By the look of them, most had been at it for hours. Some were already leaning close together in dark corners.

Dorian ordered a drink and sat with a few of Cullen's lieutenants, planning to play cards until he found someone who caught his eye. There were plenty of men in the tavern, and a few had expressed interest more than once. Two of the cook's boys, Murray and Grant. That lean Antivan elf. Others, too.

Two hours passed, and Dorian was alone at an empty table. He studied his wine glass, annoyed at the shy flutter in his belly. He hadn't even spoken to anyone outside the card game. His mind had overflowed with possibilities, and he ended up overthinking any interaction before it could happen.

Foolish.

He could always bow out. Bull wouldn't mind. He wouldn't think less of Dorian, either. He would probably clap him on the back and say he was glad this came up sooner rather than later.

Dorian glanced around the tavern. He hadn't seen Bull at all. Already found his bedmate for the night, he figured.

"Ser Pavus," said a male voice. Dorian looked up.

There was a soldier standing in front of him. He wore simple clothes and had no sword on his belt, but the way he squared his shoulders and held his hands behind his back gave him away. There was a small mark on his chin, likely from the helmets Inquisition soldiers wore. He appeared to be about Dorian's age, if the small crinkles around his eyes were any indication. Kind eyes.

Dorian always liked those.

"I'm no knight," said Dorian. "And I'm no magister, either, so don't try that one next."

"Lord?" the soldier guessed. When Dorian shook his head, he pulled the chair back and sat, resting his arms on the table. There was a deep, faded scar across one forearm. "What do I call you, then?"

"Dorian. It is my name, after all."

The soldier's face broke into a toothy smile. "Hello, Dorian. I'm Nichol."

"Hello," said Dorian. He tipped his head back, drinking the last of his wine. Nichol's eyes flicked towards his throat. "And what can I do for you this evening? I don't believe we've met until now."

"We have, actually," Nichol replied, looking a little embarrassed. "In Redcliffe. I told you where to find the nearest Inquisition camp."

"Oh, that's _right_ ," said Dorian, as the memory dawned on him. The harsh sunlight. Shouts from the markets. The soldier by the gates, bored and sunburned. "I didn't recognize you without your helmet."

That wide smile returned. "I wouldn't recognize my mum in one of them."

Dorian pushed the empty wine glass to the edge of the table. He mirrored Nichol's posture, linking his fingers together. "I doubt you came over here to talk about your mother."

"No," said Nichol, shaking his head. "No, I didn't."

Their knees bumped under the table. It was nowhere near subtle. Dorian greatly appreciated it.

"Would you like to continue talking?" Dorian asked. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Or would you prefer following me to my quarters?"

*

"Thank you," said Nichol, for the third time. He laced up his trousers. "That was lovely. Sorry about your—robes? Are they robes?"

"Yes," Dorian answered. Nichol had accidentally ripped a few buckles loose in his efforts to undress them both. "Don't worry about it. I have others."

Dorian stretched his arms above his head, watching Nichol's eyes travel down his body. He grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. Nichol ducked his head, ears bright.

Still so flustered. As though he hadn't met a man in a tavern and very nearly asked to be fucked. He might have, eventually. If Dorian hadn't seen the situation for what it was and skipped the hours they would have spent drinking and talking. That left them with more time in bed.

Time well spent, in Dorian's opinion.

Nichol perched on the edge of the bed and leaned down, fiddling with his boots. He wasn't a classical beauty—not in Tevinter, anyway, but he still caught Dorian's eye. He was densely built, with thick legs from marching in Ferelden mud, and his straw-colored hair was long enough to curl around his ears. Dorian might have admired him from afar and considered a night together, if Nichol hadn't approached him first.

One Nichol was dressed, he wished Dorian a good night and headed for the door. He lingered at the doorway for a moment before he returned to the bed and leaned down, pressing their mouths together. "Thank you."

"Enough of that," Dorian said, patting his cheek. "Fucking you was no great inconvenience to me."

"Sorry," said Nichol, flushing. He kissed Dorian twice more. "I'm very polite when I'm nervous. Um. Sleep well."

He left, gently closing the door behind him. Dorian shifted, tugging the tangled blankets up over his hips.

That had been a pleasant way to end his evening. Certainly not a bad start to the bet. He wondered how Bull had fared tonight. With his luck, Bull had probably fucked three men and four women this afternoon.

Dorian closed his eyes and listened to the wind whistling outside. He wished he understood why he had talked himself into this little game so easily. They had set up wagers before, but trying to beat Sera at darts or seeing who could get Solas to say _spirit_ first was nothing compared to this. It was quite a leap from whatever boundaries they had established.

Bragging rights? Hardly. He didn't see sex as something to be conquered and boasted about.

Some extravagant excuse for sex? Entirely unnecessary. Casual sex was simpler in the south. The people here were far less sanctimonious, which meant a general lack of interest in his inclinations unless they were shared. It was particularly easy to find a bedmate amongst soldiers, whether they were at Skyhold or one of the camps across Thedas. The threat of Corypheus's army was endless; many soldiers hopped into bed with strangers because they might die the next day.

Being better than Bull at something? Dorian doubted that. He didn't feel the need to prove himself to Bull. He wasn't a child, desperate to stand above his peers. He was aware of what he excelled at and where he struggled, and years of experience tended towards the former.

In the end, Dorian supposed Bull was right. He did like to win.

* * *

The next day, Dorian left Josephine's office and found Bull standing outside with the nobles and ambassadors. He walked towards the front door quickly in hopes of avoiding conversations with any of the people waiting to speak to Josephine. Bull kept to his heels.

"Three," said Dorian, before Bull could ask. This morning, he had been with a pair of Orlesian guardsmen—regrettably, not together. "Do you require their names?"

"Nah," said Bull. He side-stepped through the door to avoid crashing into a woman's hat and murmured an apology when she gasped. "Unless you want to share." After a beat, he added, "Two for me, by the way."

"Only two? I expect better."

Outside, the sun sank into Dorian's skin. He raised his hand to block the light, squinting, and lowered it when Bull stepped around him.

"Yeah, yeah," Bull grumbled. He tugged at the harness across his chest, scratching the skin underneath. "Don't get cocky."

Dorian hummed and continued walking in the shadow of Bull's bulk. They were close, bumping into each other every few paces.

He was reminded of a night in the desert, shortly after Adaar found Skyhold. Exhausted and drained. Huddled against Bull, complaining about the cold and wishing they could build a fire. The dim light from Adaar's staff, and the rattle in her throat when she breathed. Cole's stark silence. Bull's lips brushing against his forehead while he talked about nothing in particular to try and keep Dorian awake, because the red templars were tracking them and they needed to be ready to run or fight.

They hadn't needed to, in the end. The templars took the false trail—one that Bull wasn't happy with, insisting any good tracker would see through it—and they'd been able to get a healthy distance ahead. The next night, Bull sat next to him and beckoned him closer, saying something about how he wouldn't be able to sleep without a Vint's perfume in his nose.

Good luck with that, Dorian said.

Within the hour, he fell asleep against the Bull's shoulder.

When he awoke, he claimed exhaustion, blaming Adaar for marching them through sand all day and Cole for needing so many barriers. Adaar promised to gift him new boots and did, the next time they were in Orlais. Cole was deeply apologetic, to the point that Dorian needed to gently remind him how embellishment worked. Bull said nothing, but he didn't hide his delight.

As they drew closer to the gates, Dorian asked, "Are you following me?"

"Thought you were following me," said Bull. He slowed to a stop and angled his body to continue blocking the sun. "Where you headed?"

"Not far," Dorian answered. Rodak was collecting herbs in the hills just outside the castle walls. He had invited Dorian to join him, if he had the time. "I have a meeting to attend."

Bull chuckled. He nudged Dorian's shoulder with his elbow. "Have fun."

*

It turned out that Rodak was just as friendly outside Skyhold as he was in the gardens, and he made the loveliest sounds when Dorian swallowed around his cock.

* * *

Four days into their wager, Dorian met Bull on the battlements with their breakfast and said, "Eight."

"Eight?" Bull repeated. He plucked a pastry off the plate and ate half of it in a single bite. "Nice."

"No, wait," said Dorian quickly, as he caught his mistake. He sipped at his tea, grimacing at the heat. "Sorry. Seven."

"Hand stuff counts," Bull said. His serious tone was somewhat diminished by the flakes of pastry on his chin.

Dorian ignored that, saying, "I counted someone twice." He had spent last night and most of the morning with Nichol, who was now on his way back to the Hinterlands. "And you?"

Bull wiped his face and grinned. "Fourteen."

Maker's _breath_. Dorian had been prepared to lose, but he didn't think he would be so thoroughly trounced. At this rate, Bull would likely triple or quadruple his count by the wager's end.

"Congratulations," said Dorian. There was no point in hiding his surprise. Bull would spot it, anyway.

"You'll catch up, big guy," Bull assured him. He licked his fingers clean before he added, "I got lucky. Visiting nobles. They don't make 'em like me in Orlais."

Bull did have that advantage. Some of the more delicate visitors were audibly shocked at the sight of him. Even Dorian had never seen a Qunari his size before.

"What about you?" Bull asked. He picked up another pastry and ripped the corner off. "I bet you fucked one of Josephine's transcribers. The quiet one, with the freckles—? You did, didn't you."

"I thought a gentleman wasn't supposed to tell," said Dorian. Thomas was a shy man, always turning bright red when their hands accidentally touched. Yesterday, he had pinned Dorian to his bed and fucked him, murmuring all sorts of outstanding filth in his ear the entire time. "How did you know?"

Bull shrugged. "I guessed."

Dorian snorted. He picked up the last pastry, debating whether or not to share the details of his other trysts. It wasn't like Bull was unaware of what Dorian had been doing with his free time, but he always liked his privacy. He supposed he was bracing himself for scorn, like he used to, even though he knew he wouldn't get that from the Bull.

"I…may have secured cheaper lyrium for the Inquisition's templars," said Dorian slowly. He felt more comfortable talking around the act, letting Bull's imagination do the work for him. "Accidentally."

Bull studied him for a moment, chewing. "The Carta."

"The Carta," Dorian echoed. One of the intermediaries to the lyrium trade had visited for a day's worth of business and spent most of it finding excuses to talk to Dorian. Norak looked like a typical surface dwarf—short, bearded, thick arms, and a dark brand that covered most of his face. They'd fucked in a cramped tent in the courtyard, just out of earshot of his men, and shared a pipe by a campfire after. The smoke still clung to Dorian's cloak. "He offered to halve his price. I declined, of course, but who knows what he told Josephine."

"Hope his bosses don't mind," said Bull. He glanced down at the courtyard, watching soldiers march to the gates. "Can I guess the last one?"

Dorian beckoned for him to continue.

"That guard who's always posted on your floor," said Bull. Dorian shook his head. "The cook with the broken nose—no? Uh, Katari?"

"No," said Dorian. He doubted Bull would be able to guess, since the last man was no longer in Skyhold.

A Dalish clan had arrived a week ago to offer advice on some artifacts the Inquisition had retrieved. Their First was short-tempered and annoyed to even be at Skyhold, but he had found Dorian amusing, for some reason. They drank and talked for most of the night, arguing over proper spellwork techniques, until one thing lead to another and they ended up half-naked in an empty stable.

"I give up," Bull grumbled. His eye fell to Dorian's neck. "He the one who left you that?"

Dorian's hand flew to the mark on his collarbone. He was certain he'd hidden it with powder this morning, but—

Ah. Bull was grinning at him.

"Well played," said Dorian. He pressed two fingers into the hidden mark, remembering the sharp bite.

"Gotcha," said Bull, still grinning.

Below, someone was shouting the Bull's name. Dorian peered over the side and saw Krem, waving his arms. When Bull joined him, Krem jerked his head at the front gates.

"Gotta go," said Bull. He glanced at the hidden mark on Dorian's throat again. "Have fun catching up."

*

Mountains of coins under his boots, scattered over the ground alongside encoded messages. The vault door was open. Laurent's hands on his hips, a mouth at his neck, a gasping voice. _Harder_ , Dorian said, then _faster_ , then _please, please_ —

A guest bedroom in the eastern wing and cold stone under Dorian's knees, Lord Tranchant's hands in his hair. Leaves a sizable impression on his partners, Vivienne said once, lips curved into a hidden smile; Dorian should not have doubted her. He traced the length with his fingers as Tranchant thumbed at his mouth, asking _can you_ , and Dorian assured him he could, with enough practice—

The afternoon sun was hot and sticky to the touch, but they were hidden in the shade of a market stall in an empty courtyard. Bare, rocks and dirt digging into his skin, cocks pressed together between their bellies. Strong hands splayed in the grass above his head, beard rubbing against his cheek as they kissed. _Like that_ , Segarus said, voice tight and hurried, and Dorian told him, _Yes, yes, just like this_ —

Empty barracks and thick muscle under his palms. Head bowed, arms trembling, a gasp. A curse. Dorian slid his hand over Hector's hip and leaned down, murmuring a question, and Hector arched into his touch. _Yes, yes_ —

*

By nightfall, Dorian was weary and rather pleased with himself. He wandered around Skyhold, inquiring about the Bull's whereabouts, and waited by the front gates until the Chargers approached. Rain fell from the sky in lazy clumps, barely enough to dampen his hair.

"Your Vint's waiting for you," Dalish called. She was using her staff as a walking stick, holding onto it with both hands as she trudged through the gates. A long line of carts followed behind her. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing," came Krem's voice from somewhere down the path. Dalish threw a string of curses in his direction. Dorian winced. "What?"

"She's referring to me," said Dorian. He pressed his back to the wall, giving one particularly over-packed cart more than enough room to pass. Under torchlight, he spotted the mud smeared all over Dalish's clothes. A fair amount was caked to her face and hands. "Long day?"

"Yes," Dalish said, scowling. She jabbed her staff towards the Bull. "Take the chief away. He's been joking and punning this whole walk back, and this one—" She pointed at Krem. "—isn't helping. I can't take it."

"Wasn't that bad," Krem said, greeting Dorian with a nod. He murmured an apology to Dalish as he passed her.

" _Dalish_ ," said Bull, his voice lifting like a song. He was muddy, too, but he looked more cheerful about it.

With a start, Dorian remembered:

An afternoon, last month. Skyhold's gates, stretching into the sky. Mud and snow up to his knees, soaking through a hole in his left boot. The cheers and ringing bells as Adaar led the group into the courtyard. Dorian's horse, neighing wearily.

Bull. In the stables with Blackwall, each carving a small slab of wood. A happy shout. Sheer, bold joy. Gathering Dorian in his arms, nearly lifting him off his feet. Blackwall's chuckle. Dorian's embarrassment, tampered by Bull's grin. Laughter, rumbling in Bull's chest.

Look at me, Dorian protested. His ribs, aching. Bull's trousers, already damp with mud. I'm filthy.

So, Bull said. Slinging an arm around Dorian's shoulders, nudging his staff. I missed you.

 _What if_ , Dorian had wondered, and nearly considered it.

"—tell you," Bull was saying, "the one about the cow and the—"

"Sorry, busy," Dalish cut in. She took Skinner's hand and lead her towards the baths. They were trailed by the rest of the Chargers. Bull watched them go, smiling faintly.

When the last of the carts passed through the gates, Dorian asked, "The cow and the fly?"

"Yeah," said Bull fondly. "Blackwall told it to me."

"Must've heard it from Sera," Dorian replied. It was one of her favorite jokes. He tipped his head towards the mountains. "What were you up to?"

"Those merchants ignored that nice path Cullen's boys built," Bull answered. He pushed his palm into his right shoulder as he rolled it back. "Most of 'em tipped right into a ravine. We spent the day picking up all the lost goods and fixing the wagons."

"Another fanciful story for the Bull's Chargers," said Dorian. He considered offering a heated or cooled palm, but Bull tended to avoid magical healing unless Vivienne was casting. "I assume your count remains the same, then?"

Bull nodded. He stretched his arm above his head, moving in slow circles until his shoulder popped.

"That's good for me, I suppose," said Dorian. He glanced up at the stars instead of the endless stretch of flexing muscle. "Seeing as how you'd doubled mine this morning. Which is curious, by the way. Did you get _any_ sleep last night, or—?"

"Go on," Bull interrupted. He switched to the other shoulder, grinning. "I know you wanna tell me. What's your count?"

"I said I would keep you informed," Dorian reminded him. _Strict records_ , and all that. "Eleven. I could have gone for twelve, but—well, even I have somewhat of a reputation to maintain."

Bull whistled. "Shit, you did try and catch up. I'm proud of you."

He sounded far too sincere for that to be a joke. Dorian dismissed that with a wave of his hand, shrugging. Bull chuckled.

Silence. It stretched in the dark, heavier over the muffled sounds from the tavern and the light spatter of rain. Dorian cleared his throat. "Aren't you going to inquire about my partners?"

Bull lowered his arms. "Only if you want me to."

Gentle voice. Kind words. That should have felt demeaning.

"You should guess," said Dorian. He had enjoyed that this morning. Bull was either spot-on or wildly inaccurate, which made for interesting conversation. "I'll buy you a drink for every one you get right."

"I gotta get this shit off me," said Bull, gesturing at the mud. He tilted his head towards the baths. "Let's see how many I can guess on the walk over."

In the end, Bull guessed none of them correctly. Dorian bought him a mug of cocoa as a consolation prize.

* * *

On the fifth day, Dorian found himself wandering the castle's third floor. A translation was proving difficult, and he tended to walk around or do menial tasks to trick his mind into relaxing. Pacing all over the library only made people nervous, so he had started walking through the castle instead.

He turned a corner and spotted Warren exiting a storage room. Unarmored, without his usual greatsword. Instead, a small sword dangled from his belt.

"Good afternoon, Dorian," said Warren cheerfully. He looked at his hands, grimaced, and wiped them on his trousers. He left dusty handprints on his thighs. "I've never seen you on this floor."

"It's quieter here," said Dorian, which was something like the truth. "And you?"

"Cleaning. I was late to drills this morning, so the commander had me sweep the battlements."

"What a waste of a lovely day."

Warren shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Could be worse."

He really was handsome—tall, strong-jawed, and bright. It would have been annoying if he wasn't so friendly. Dorian gazed at him, wondering. There was an opportunity here, if he wished. All he had to do was ask. If he was rejected, then so be it. Better to have that known sooner rather than later.

"I got to talk to you, though," Warren added. "So it's not that bad."

Ah, there it was. Opportunity.

"You're very kind," said Dorian, offering him a quick bow. "Are you busy right now?"

Warren shook his head.

"Then allow me to speak plainly," Dorian said. He folded his arms across his chest before he could start gesturing with his hands, which some of the soldiers deemed threatening. "I find you attractive. I would like to spend time with you. Alone."

Warren stared at him. His mouth slipped open.

"And if you decline," Dorian added, because the poor man looked like he needed an escape, "we shall go our separate—"

"No, no, it's all right," said Warren, shaking his head and waving his hands wildly. He sucked in a quick breath. "It's just—I've struck gold this week. Yesterday, the Iron Bull, and now you."

Something peculiar curled in Dorian's belly. It wasn't jealousy; he tried to have no use for the feeling.

"The Iron Bull," Dorian repeated.

"That Qunari mercenary. The one missing an eye," Warren explained. Confusion settled over his handsome features. "Thought you were friends with him."

"Yes. Yes, he—yes," Dorian said, rather succinctly. He remembered the counter against his head and all the names Bull listed. He wondered if Bull would fuck Rodak next, or Katari. Perhaps he already had. "Enough about—all that. Are you interested, or shall we—?"

"Yes," Warren cut in. He reached for Dorian's hand, tugging him into the storage closet. "Maker, yes."

Inside, the room was dark and dusty. There were many shelves, filled with rags and boxes of forgotten junk, and several buckets littered the floor. Warren pushed the brooms away from the wall and pushed Dorian into their place, hands searching for his in the dark as they kissed. The touch reminded Dorian of all those stolen kisses in libraries and dark corridors back home.

It had been a long time since he realized he didn't have to hide himself, but it was still a marvelous thing to remember.

Warren's touch was everywhere: cupping his cheek, skimming his hips, linking their fingers together, a flat hand on his exposed shoulder, fingers tracing his spine. Dorian sank into the wall and let those hands wander, wondering if he had done this with the Bull. If he had explored that body the way he was doing now. If Bull had liked it.

The thought was jarring; he was nearly dizzy with it. He blinked, feeling himself teeter sideways in the dark.

"What did you do," Dorian murmured. He unfastened Warren's belt with one hand and held onto the sword's hilt with the other, so it wouldn't fall. "With the Bull."

Warren chuckled against his mouth. "Do you really want to know?"

"I'm curious," said Dorian, as he carefully lowered the sword to the ground and kicked it out of reach. He slipped his hand under Warren's shirt, running his fingers along the thick trail of hair. Warren shivered, ticklish. "Indulge me."

Warren nodded, bumping their foreheads together. He flattened his palms against the wall and leaned closer, mouthing at Dorian's jaw. One thigh slipped between his.

"We were at the training grounds. I asked him if he'd like to spar. Figured it'd be a good story for the rest of the lads—me, trying to stand equal with a Qunari."

"I assume you tried, at least," said Dorian, tipping his head back so Warren could kiss his collarbone. It wasn't entirely impossible. He had seen Cassandra and Krem spar with Bull and stay on their feet. Even from his spot in the library, he had seen the muscles shifting under Bull's skin as he dodged and launched into an attack. He had imagined the rest. Laughter. Sweat, glinting in the sun. His grin.

"He—" Warren paused and ducked his head, laughing into Dorian's throat. "He knocked me onto my arse more times than I can count."

"And then he fucked you in the middle of the courtyard?"

More laughter. Warren's breath was warm on Dorian's skin.

"No." Warren shifted, pressing his prick against Dorian's hip. "No, he brought me to the medic's tent. She wasn't there, so he put that elfroot paste on my bruises. I—I asked him—"

Dorian kept one hand on Warren's hip and reached up to touch his jaw, gently nudging him into a kiss. He could feel Warren's breath shaking in his chest. Nerves, perhaps, or embarrassment, but Dorian suspected it was more arousal than anything else.

"You asked him," Dorian said. He pressed his thumb into Warren's hip.

"I asked him," Warren repeated, fingers scraping against the wall, "to use his hand. I begged."

"Really?" Dorian asked. He had imagined frantic sex in the medic's tent—Bull's cock between Warren's thighs, a hand on his mouth to keep him quiet. "That was all you desired?"

"His _hands_ ," said Warren, sighing happily. He rocked against Dorian's thigh. "Haven't you seen them?"

Dorian rarely thought about the Bull's hands. He tended to associate them with the day-to-day activities on the road, like Bull's fingers gripping the heft of an axe. Sera's boots balanced on his palms because she wanted a fresh apple that was out of her reach. An enemy's jaw breaking under the force of a punch. Carrying boxes of supplies into camp. Cupping rainwater in his palms during a storm.

He imagined Warren, sprawled in a cot too big for his frame as he watched Bull stroke him.

"I must admit, it's a pretty picture," said Dorian. He slipped his hand over Warren's hips, grabbing his arse. "Did you come?"

Warren nodded. His stubble scraped across Dorian's cheek.

"Are you thinking about it now?" Dorian asked. He was. _Maker_ , he certainly was. He shifted, trying to get any kind of pressure on his cock without distracting Warren.

Another nod. Warren was thrusting desperately against his thigh now, trousers still laced. He slumped forward, one arm around Dorian's shoulders and the other at his waist.

"I—I want," said Warren, his fingers digging sharply into Dorian's hips. "I want—can I suck you, after. I've never—I want to—"

"Yes," Dorian told him. He tightened his hold on Warren's arse. "Yes, you may." He waited a beat, and then added, "Come."

If Warren said something, it was lost in Dorian's neck. He buried his head there, rutting against Dorian's hip until he came with a low moan. His chest heaved. There was a damp stain on his trousers, which he ignored. He lifted his head, still panting, when Dorian curled his fingers in his hair.

"Thank you," Warren murmured. He dropped to his knees.

Together, they fumbled with Dorian's trousers until Dorian could wrap his fingers around his cock. He stroked himself slowly, knuckles bumping against Warren's mouth.

He did not think about Warren, arching into the Bull's touch.

"Oh," said Warren. The word sounded deafening in this dark little room. Hesitantly, he touched Dorian's cock with his fingers, then licked and sucked at the tip. "Is that—is that good?"

His voice was tight, pitched higher than normal. Dorian wondered if he had slept with a man before the Bull.

"Just like that," Dorian murmured. Gently, he touched Warren's head. The room swelled with a moan.

Warren slid his fingers along Dorian's cock, guiding as much of the shaft as he could handle into his mouth. He choked and drew back, coughing. It was easier for him the second time; Dorian's cock disappeared into sweet warmth. Dorian murmured a curse and curled his fingers in Warren's hair. As if their hands were connected, Warren gripped Dorian's hip.

"Good," Dorian told him. Warren made a small noise in the back of his throat.

He was beginning to think that Warren enjoyed being told what to do. To be held in place. Absently, he thought of rope. Limbs, straining.

Another time, perhaps.

Warren was moaning around his cock now. Dorian could feel it as much as he could hear the sound rattling around his ears. Only a faint outline was visible in the dark, but he could still picture Warren's lips, stretched around him. The hollow of his cheeks. His eyes, heavy and dark.

He wondered if Warren _had_ done this before. There was a certain level of skill required for this act, and Warren had picked up on it rather quickly. Perhaps he was only playing at innocence. Some men enjoyed that. Dorian didn't, generally, but he appreciated an eager learner.

Maybe the Bull did, too.

"We're nearing the end," Dorian said. He stilled his hands and kept his hips steady, because he was a polite man. Particularly when it came to cocksucking. "Do you want me to come in your mouth?"

Warren drew back, gasping. "Yes. _Yes_ , please—yes, Dorian, yes—"

He returned with a fervor. Dorian's knees nearly buckled.

" _I've never_ ," Dorian murmured. He held onto Warren's head with both hands, thumbing at his cheek. "Can't believe I fell for that, you— _fuck_ —"

Warren, the liar, was likely grinning as he hummed and swallowed. Dorian slumped against the wall, tracing Warren's cheekbones with his thumb.

They stayed like that for a while, silent, until Warren tucked Dorian's cock back into his underclothes. He made an attempt with the buckles, but he gave up shortly.

"Sorry," said Warren. He scrambled to his feet, murmuring another apology when their elbows brushed together. "Couldn't do that in the sunshine, much less in the dark."

"Ah, but you forget," said Dorian, as he conjured a small ball of light to hover above their heads. He squinted in the new light, ducking his head until his eyes adjusted. "I am a mage."

When he looked up, Warren was staring at his own groin in horror. He yanked a rag off a nearby shelf and scrubbed at his trousers, cursing.

"You a garment mage, by any chance?" Warren asked. He unlaced his trousers and cleaned himself. "Shit. These are new trousers, too."

Dorian titled his head, eyeing the stain. He'd seen worse. He gestured at Warren, indicating for him to move his hands out of the way, and removed the stain. His head throbbed sharply for a moment—the promise of a future headache, if he continued to cast so quickly without a staff.

"Oh," said Warren, gazing at his clean trousers. "Was just a joke, but thanks."

"I spent my childhood in a dormitory with several other boys," Dorian replied. He plucked the dirty rag out of Warren's hands and turned it to ash, which he spilled onto the floor. "We grew familiar with that particular spell."

Warren chuckled. "Better than scrubbing, I suppose."

They fell silent. Dorian's light hummed.

"Well, shall we leave separately?" Dorian asked. He didn't need to bother with this in the south, which was a delight, but it was still polite to ask. "I don't mind."

"No, we can go together," Warren answered. He ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Before we…I want to say thanks, again. I'm returning to the Dales tomorrow. This will be a good thing to remember when I'm lonely."

"I'm happy to help our soldiers in whatever way I can," Dorian replied. Warren smiled at that, his eyes crinkling around the corners. "Shall we? You probably shouldn't be late for the commander again."

"Dunno," said Warren. He stepped over to the door, tugged it open, and waited for Dorian before following him out. "It worked out well enough this time."

*

Dorian had his supper in the library. He kept the plate carefully angled away from his books and didn't drink anything, even though an Orlesian red would pair nicely with his meal. He was alone, except for Solas below, and deep into a particularly dry dissertation on House Amladaris when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"Two more for me," said Bull. Dorian beckoned him closer. "And I'm done for the night."

"It's barely past supper," said Dorian. He was amused at the idea of Bull, who seemed to have endless energy, being too tired to have sex. "Whatever will those lonely men do without you tonight?"

"Dream about me instead," Bull answered. He kept his voice low, which Dorian appreciated. The thought of _Solas_ overhearing their conversation was not one that Dorian wanted to imagine. "You?"

"One," said Dorian. He poked at the roasted potatoes with his fork, deliberating. "Warren."

"Really," said Bull, dragging the word out. He took another step closer, folding his arms over his chest, and leaned against the bookshelf. The rest of the library was blocked by his bulk.

"He mentioned you, if you were wondering," Dorian said. He cut some of the potatoes in half with his fork. "I think he has a fascination with your hands."

Bull glanced down at his hands. He flexed each finger, drumming them along his arms. "They're pretty nice."

 _I begged_ , Warren had said, almost dreamily. Dorian shifted in his chair.

"Does your usual seduction method involve knocking soldiers into the dirt, so you can pull them off in a tent?"

"Hey," said Bull, mocking offense. "I didn't plan on it. Just kinda happened." He paused, still flexing his hands. "What'd you do with him?"

"He," said Dorian, trying to think of a respectable way to say _desperately rutted against me_. "He used my thigh. And then he sucked me. He said he'd never done that before."

Bull nodded. "Did he like it?"

"Very much," Dorian answered, based on the moans and litany of _yes, please_. "He was a little clumsy at first. But we enjoyed ourselves."

"That's always good. Did you—"

"Did you fuck him?" Dorian interrupted. He already knew the beginning—a spar, a mild injury, and then Warren, bruised and sprawled in a cot, while Bull stroked him. He had to know what happened after. It had been on his mind all afternoon.

Bull shook his head.

"Tell me what you did," said Dorian.

It sounded more demanding than he intended, but Bull didn't seem to mind. He took a step closer and stayed there, waiting. Dorian's heart leapt into his throat.

Nothing else in the library mattered. Not the books, or his slowly cooling meal, or whatever Solas was muttering about. There was the Bull (and his _hands_ ) and Dorian and whatever this was. This odd little dance where Dorian set the pace and Bull followed, always out of reach unless Dorian wanted him.

"Please," Dorian added.

A long moment passed. Bull shifted his weight, his eye still fixed on Dorian.

"I sat on the cot," said Bull. He was speaking so quietly that Dorian had to strain his ears to hear. "I leaned over him. Held his hands over his head. And I jerked off. Came all over his chest. His face, too."

Warren had probably strained in the Bull's grip, pushing against his hands. Useless. Warren was strong, but Bull was _stronger_ , and he wouldn't have wanted to free himself, anyway. Not if Bull was stroking himself. Rubbing precome over Warren's belly. Telling him he was doing well, that he looked so good, that he—

"He must have enjoyed that," said Dorian. He tightened his grip on the fork. "Did he ask for your hand again?"

"No," Bull answered. "I cleaned him up and knelt on the floor. Told him he could hold onto my horns if he asked—"

Above them, a door opened. Dorian flinched, dropping his fork. It clanged loudly against his plate, drowning out the sounds of Leliana's people arguing over who had to decode the latest message.

"Nicely," Bull finished. He stepped back, shrugging. "Made my knee ache for the rest of the day, but it was worth it."

"I imagine it was," said Dorian, his mind elsewhere. Bull, on his knees. Warren's hands gripping his horns. He wondered if the Bull swallowed. "Will you see him again?"

"Will you?"

"I doubt it," Dorian answered. Warren wouldn't be able to play naïve soldier with him again, and Dorian had the feeling that was the part he enjoyed the most. "I think he would appreciate it if _you_ approached him, though."

"Nah, I'll just wave," said Bull, wiggling his fingers. He glanced up into the rookery, where the spies were still arguing in furious whispers. "I should go. You coming to the tavern tonight?"

Dorian indicated the books strewn around him. "I have all this to finish."

"Okay," Bull said. He looked disappointed, but that disappeared under a smile. "G'night, then."

"Good night," said Dorian. He watched Bull leave, his meal forgotten.

*

"Andraste's tits, Pavus," said Oskell, gasping. He grinned and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. "That was _good_. You're fantastic."

"I know," Dorian murmured. The body above him shook with laughter. "You're not bad, either. Have you considered whoring? I can think of a few men who would pay for your fingers."

Oskell kissed the corner of his mouth before he drew back. "Inquisition pays me well enough."

Dorian stretched out on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge, and started cleaning himself with the sheet. Oskell gathered up his clothes, whistling.

He was a soldier, usually assigned to camps in his native Ferelden, though he'd spent the last few weeks in Skyhold recovering from a broken ankle. He hadn't needed to spend his bedrest in a castle in the mountains, but Cullen had requested it, so Oskell could help guard valuable shipments and messages on his way back to the main camp. Dorian had found him in the infirmary, cursing about elfroot, and had offered to buy him a drink to calm his nerves. It wasn't said entirely in jest, but he had been surprised when Oskell accepted. Doubly so, when Oskell proceeded to flirt like a dockside whore.

Oskell was a top swordsman, a fairly decent cook, and he'd attacked Dorian's arse with his tongue as much as his fingers. That act wasn't as popular in Tevinter, but Dorian had come to truly enjoy it. It was certainly a skill worth encouraging. He had no doubt that Bull would appreciate it.

"I have a question for you," said Dorian, as the thought occurred to him. He kicked the dirty sheet towards the end of the bed. "Would you mind if I shared the details of our encounter with anyone?"

Oskell stepped into his trousers. "Who?"

"A friend," said Dorian lightly. "We talk, sometimes. I'd like to sing your praises."

Oskell tugged his shirt over his head and pushed loose strands of hair off his face. "Spread the good word, then."

*

"His _tongue_ ," said Dorian, for probably the fifth time that night. He rested his elbows on the battlements and leaned back, tipping his head to gaze at the night sky. "Divine. I don't care how blasphemous that is. He is a divine creature, and his skills ought to be treasured."

"Treasured," Bull repeated. He plucked the wine bottle out of Dorian's hand and drank deeply. "You need to get your ass eaten more often."

"I cannot disagree," Dorian replied. Bull chuckled.

This was more details than he had ever shared before. He blamed the drink. It calmed the unfamiliar nerves fluttering in his belly, as it always did. Bull did, too. With every tale Dorian told, Bull matched it with overwhelming enthusiasm and approval. The praise heated his skin and swelled broadly in his chest whenever Bull grinned.

He suspected he liked that more than he should.

"You should see him again," said Bull.

Dorian shook his head. Oskell was married. His wife was the understanding sort, as Oskell had explained, but she would not be pleased if he sought intimacy beyond the rules they had established. A few tumbles with strangers while he was off at war was fine; a deeper relationship was not. Oskell was not a nobleman's son, but he had a family to provide for and a wife he respected and cared about. Dorian had no intention of disturbing that.

Clear, well-defined rules, discussed before one spent too much time seeking what they could not have. _That_ was the key to casual sex, which Dorian had never been opposed to. What he disagreed with was the lying and the pretending, and the stubborn belief that affections like his could never be anything more than mere lust.

Bull tapped his fingers along the wine bottle. "He made you happy."

"Many things bring me joy," Dorian replied. _You_ , he thought suddenly, with horrible little feelings swelling in his chest. He swiftly abandoned that line of thought and added, "Beautiful sunsets. Good brandy. Tomes so old the ink has started to fade. Men with large—"

Bull glanced at him, eyebrow raised.

"Fingers," Dorian finished. He wiggled his own, grinning when Bull huffed and rolled his eye. Feeling bold, he asked, "Do you enjoy that particular act?"

"Fingers in my ass? Yeah. Tongue, too."

Dorian hummed. He turned, leaning into his elbow. Bull was watching the gate below, where soldiers were changing shifts.

"What about being fucked," said Dorian. Surprise rippled over Bull's features—raised eyebrows, parted lips, a quick breath. It was a rare sight. Dorian savored it. "Do you enjoy that, as well?"

"Yeah," Bull answered. He rubbed his mouth. "Doesn't happen very often."

"I assumed so," said Dorian. When he imagined the Bull having sex, he was always on top. "Do you crave it?"

"Do you?"

Deflecting a question back was one of Bull's favorite tricks, but he was usually more subtle about it. Dorian let the silence linger, watching Bull drink.

"Yes," Dorian answered. Of course he did. A man above him, pressing him into a bed, the sensation of being _full_. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Thought it was discouraged in Tevinter," said Bull. He offered Dorian the bottle.

"The act itself? Hardly," Dorian said, shaking his head. He took the bottle and drank. It was nearly empty. "No one truly cares how you find your pleasure unless you refuse to play your part. Or it's something appalling, like bedding farm animals."

Bull laughed. The sound traveled through the empty courtyards below.

"To not being a goat fucker," said Bull. He tapped the wine bottle with his knuckles, miming a toast.

"Ah, yes, the least we can do," said Dorian, but he still raised the bottle and pushed it into Bull's knuckles. What little wine remained sloshed against the glass. "To tongues, I think. That sounds better."

"To tongues," Bull repeated. He fit two fingers under the bottle, tipping it back into Dorian's mouth until there was nothing left. "Cheers."

Dorian licked his lips. The wine had left his mouth dry. "Cheers."

Bull took the bottle out of his hands and leaned over to place it on the ground. He offered to fetch another, but Dorian declined.

"Okay," Bull said. He rested his arms on the battlements and leaned into them. "Got any other stories?"

"I'm afraid not," Dorian answered. He peered at Bull's face, trying to make out his expression in the shadows. "Do you?"

"No," said Bull glumly. "Cullen asked me to lead the recruit training today, since his usual guy is sick."

"I would have thought that made it easy," Dorian said. He couldn't imagine a scenario where Bull spent a day with a unit of soldiers and not a single one showed interest. "All those sweaty men, eager to please you."

"I was focusing more on their sword stances," Bull said. Dorian was certain he was waggling his eyebrows. "What about you? Keeping busy?"

"I try," Dorian said. He explained the situation as quickly as he could.

Shortly after an anonymous source passed Mae information about the remaining Venatori factions in the south, a magister was reported missing. His family wasn't particularly well known and his voting record was unremarkable, but he was a friendly and agreeable man, by Mae's account. It was likely that the events were connected. There was nothing they could do but wait while Mae curried favor with the few magisters on her side and Cullen ordered the Inquisition's forces into battle with the remaining Venatori.

"If he isn't found soon, Mae's support will waver," said Dorian. "And that little resistance begins to buckle."

"And break," said Bull. "You worried?"

Dorian shrugged. He was, out of concern for his friend, but this was something Mae could handle in her sleep. Besides, it wasn't like he could do anything from so far away. "It's only politics. It's just a little bloodier in Tevinter."

"You miss it."

A statement, not a question. Bull did know him well. Dorian nodded.

"I know," Bull said, like he was apologizing.

Even now, Dorian had bouts of homesickness. He disliked plenty about his home, but he missed just as many. There was the food, of course. Fereldans didn't know how season a meal, and Orlesians used entirely too much butter. He was no longer welcome in his family's estate, but Alexius had brought him into his own like he belonged there. His memories of Felix were there. All that _potential_ was there, buried under generations of tradition, and there weren't enough people willing to push back against it.

"I need to go back," said Dorian quietly. It was something he'd been considering for a long time. He had broached the subject briefly with Adaar, but he wasn't sure she believed him. "Soon."

Bull nodded. "When?"

"After this," Dorian answered, gesturing at the castle. "Once Corypheus is dead. I can't fix anything if he kills everyone first."

Bull chuckled. He pushed himself off the battlements, turning to face Dorian.

"Dorian," said Bull, giving the name more weight than it deserved. He clasped Dorian's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "You'll do great things."

It was odd that a small gesture could leave him feeling so proud and yet so small. Dorian bowed his head, feeling Bull's fingers sink into his skin. He wanted that touch to linger. He wanted to cover Bull's hand with his. He wanted an embrace. A kiss.

Bull lowered his hand.

"Thank you," said Dorian. His shoulder felt empty. "I hope I do."

* * *

Dorian dreamed of Bull's hands on his skin and his voice in his ear and his fingers inside him—stretching, preparing—and awoke with knuckles between his teeth, swallowing his moan.

An attraction was there. He knew it. He often ignored it, because he enjoyed their friendship as it was. Flirting and dancing around a possibility could be fun, and the Bull made it easy. There were no real expectations—only what Dorian allowed. If he told Bull to stop, he would, without complaint. If he asked Bull to fuck him until he could barely remember his own name, he would, eagerly. If Dorian said that was the one and only time, Bull would understand.

Dorian rolled onto his back, ignoring his cock. He should have expected this frantic surge of lust. He already spent a fair amount of his time with Bull in this state; it shouldn't have been a surprise that fucking other men and telling each other about it would only deepen his attraction.

The dream would fade. It usually did. That hollow pit in his belly would, too. Curiosity, tampered by hesitation. Wanting, yet fearing the result.

How dreadfully familiar.

With this wager, Dorian had purposely avoided men he thought he would like a deeper relationship with. There wasn't a point in approaching someone for sex, only to want something else in the future. He had never appreciated men who showed interest, only to abandon it when Dorian assumed they were serious. Why would the alternative be any different?

And yet: here he was, with his fantasies. Imagining all the possibilities.

He could. He could walk over to the tavern, knock on Bull's door, and get fucked in a matter of minutes. He would, if that irritating tickle in the back of his mind stopped suggesting _if_ and _you could_ and _he might_. If they shared a bed. If he could untangle this mess of emotions spinning in his head.

If Bull could want something different.

Very different from what he'd known. Qunari didn't have a use for relationships or romance, so they simply didn't exist. _Bull_ didn't, Tal-Vashoth or not. He had never expressed an interest. If anything, he seemed amused and quietly baffled by the concept of them. There was a reason Dorian used to dismiss these idle thoughts.

Dorian pushed his palms into his eyes, scowling. He was overthinking things. Again. The very idea—laughable. He was only considering it because he'd spent the last week reminiscing about good sex with a friend who had made it quite clear that he would happily take Dorian to his bed. A friend he hadn't expected, and one whose company he genuinely enjoyed.

He suspected this would be a lot easier to comprehend if he'd taken Bull up on his offer to keep warm in the snow, or followed Bull to his room after a long night of drinking, or searched for Bull's hands in a dark tent. Sex was simple—that was something he had considered and fantasized about since he'd met Bull. It would be easier to untangle his affections from their friendship if they had already fucked, instead of nudging boundaries and seeing how far their flirtations could go without actually having sex.

Or it would be more difficult. 

Dorian kicked the linens away and stood, stretching. The sky was pink, and the castle was just beginning to wake. He could think about this later. Bull would be waiting for him in the gardens with a fresh loaf of bread and hot tea.

He was, sitting in the pavilion's shade. There was no tea, unfortunately, but he had a pitcher of water, which Dorian kept cold with ice.

"Do you enjoy this?" Dorian asked, once Bull had finished telling him about the visiting merchant who refused to get off his knees until he could fit Bull's cock in his mouth.

Bull leered. "You mean, getting my—"

"No," Dorian cut in. He picked up a chess piece, slipping it between his knuckles. He watched that instead of Bull's eye. "Telling me."

Bull dug his fingers into the bread's crust, wincing at the heat. "Should I stop?"

"No," Dorian answered. His fingers twitched, sending the chess piece onto the table. He scooped it back up, holding it between his index and middle finger. "I enjoy our talks. I was inquiring about you."

"Yeah," Bull said, nodding. He swept crumbs off the table and into the dirt. "Yeah, I do."

Dorian waited, expecting more, but Bull said nothing. He pushed the chess piece into his thumb. "Good. That's good."

"Yeah," Bull said again. He was smiling. It was a small one, mostly in the crinkles around his eye.

"What is it," said Dorian, trying to mask the sudden warmth spreading over his skin. "Have I said something funny?"

"Nah," Bull said. He offered the bread. "You're checking up on me. It's sweet."

Dorian snorted. He stabbed the bread with the chess piece, using it to pull a chunk free. "Well, if you won't, I suppose I'll have to."

He popped the bread into his mouth and chewed, watching Bull's eye soften.

* * *

By the second week, Dorian was likely still trailing Bull's count. He had been too busy with all the problems that were cropping up in the north, which required discussions with Leliana about the coded messages her people had recovered and frantic letters to Mae. On top of all that, Josephine requested his presence at the daily—and sometimes twice or thrice—advisor meetings, so they could give Adaar better options once she returned from her expedition.

Politics was frustrating work. It took a lot of time and effort, and there was rarely any reward to show for it. Dorian wished he didn't enjoy it so much.

"I think we should send her another unit of templars," said Cullen. He studied the map, gnawing on his lower lip. "Perhaps two."

"You cannot solve everything with more soldiers," said Leliana. Her tone was careful enough that Dorian knew she meant no offense, but spots of pink still appeared on Cullen's cheeks.

"I suppose we should send in your people," Cullen snapped. His hands flexed around the hilt of his sword. "Cut the throats of all the magisters who oppose Maevaris's legislation. Their families, too, while we're there. I know you don't like loose ends."

Leliana glanced at Josephine, who was skimming a stack of papers. "Josie won't let me."

"Leliana," said Josephine, with the quiet patience of someone who had heard this particular argument many, many times. "Dorian, what do you think?"

"We've already sent templars into Tevinter," Dorian said. He rested his palms on the war table and leaned into them, looking down at all the wars the Inquisition was fighting. No wonder Adaar went on expeditions so often. Chasing demons and templars was a lovely holiday compared to this. "They were strange and terrifying, and _new_. Now they're not. They still hold the upper hand in a fight, what with your—"

He gestured vaguely at Cullen, who shrugged and beckoned for him to continue.

"—smiting and dispelling and all that. But we've already made a statement with them. I think it loses its significance if we make it twice."

Cullen inhaled sharply through his nose. He covered one hand with the other, squeezing. "I agree."

"You could sound more cheerful about it," Dorian said. Cullen bared his teeth in a grim smile. "Ah, that's better."

"We could send a small unit," Leliana suggested. "Disguised, of course. Along with…hm. Do we have any Carta members who are willing to annoy the Magisterium? Just until Maevaris gathers the votes she requires."

Josephine tapped her index finger against the papers, eyes focused on the opposite wall as she counted. "Yes. Yes…possibly. We'll have to owe a favor or two, but they only need forged documents or better transportation for their smuggling. Both are easy to acquire."

Leliana hummed and nodded, clearly pleased. She turned to Cullen and fell into a discussion about which templars to send north.

"Well, I suppose we're done here," said Dorian. He tapped the war table in farewell. "Shall I leave you with a list of the best fine dining establishments and brothels in Minrathous?"

"I'm sure they can manage their own entertainment," Josephine replied, though her lips were pressed together to hide a smile. She waved him away. "Thank you."

She called for her messenger when Dorian opened the door. There was no response. Josephine frowned and called his name again.

"Allow me," Dorian offered. "You shouldn't have to deliver your own messages, and I'm already leaving."

"Dorian," said Josephine, preparing to bargain. He knew the look on her face.

"You owe me nothing, and I will not argue about it," said Dorian. He beckoned for her to continue. "Your message, my lady?"

Josephine directed him towards a collection of correspondence for the Bull's Chargers, to be delivered to Krem. Dorian recited the instructions back before he left the war room.

The letters were on the desk, as Josephine said they would be. Not encoded, so Dorian assumed it wasn't anything from up north. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the first one as he walked through the front hall. It appeared to be a job offer, with a remarkably low payment. Dorian hadn't spent a lot of time with mercenary bands, but the quoted coin was hardly enough to cover expenses. Josephine agreed; she had added a note on the next page, suggesting a better fee.

Dorian stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the sun. He wondered where Krem would be at this time of day.

There were no meetings scheduled with the Chargers, so he wouldn't be in the castle. He wouldn't be with the blacksmith, either; if he was getting a new weapon, Dorian would have heard about it in detail from Bull by now. The Chargers slept in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers, so he could be there—reading, playing cards, or doing whatever it was soldiers did behind closed doors. Or he could be browsing the merchants' stalls. Dorian often saw him there when he looked out the library windows.

He didn't have to search far. Krem was in the courtyard outside the tavern, sparring with Bull. They were surrounded by a small crowd, who cheered with every hit and dodge. When Dorian walked closer, he heard one man shouting out bets.

The brawl ended with Krem on his back. He clutched the wooden shield to his chest, gasping. Bull offered him a hand.

"Chief," said Krem, once he was standing. He spat and wiped his mouth. "You _arse_."

"You always leave your left open when you think I'm not looking at it," Bull said, grinning. He was drenched in sweat, horns casting dark shadows over the grass. Dorian stared for too long—as though he had never seen Bull before, or he wasn't aware that Bull was large and tended to tower over a crowd—before he caught himself. "I'm always watching."

"I know," Krem grumbled. He knocked Bull's arm with his fist. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, lads."

"Only lost a few bits," one soldier said. The woman beside him pocketed the coin, grinning. "I'd bet on you again, though. How the fuck do you stay on your feet for so long?"

"Practice," Krem told him. He spotted Dorian at the edge of the crowd and jerked his head towards him. "Come to join the fun?"

"Maker, no," Dorian answered. He raised the papers. "Josephine sends messages for the Chargers."

Before Krem could reply, Bull dropped his shield and said, "I'll take care of it. That'll give me a few minutes to rest."

"I'll take your spot," said the soldier who had lost his bet. He picked up the discarded shield and stepped into the ring, eying Krem.

"Three minutes," someone shouted. Another offered two.

Krem raised his shield. "Let's see if you can get past one."

Dorian followed Bull towards the shade behind the tavern. There was a barrel of water, which Bull plunged his hands into. He splashed some on his face, sighing.

"Here," said Dorian. He flattened his palm against the barrel's side, pushing cold into it. The water trembled and shook, spattering across Bull's chest. "Better?"

"Shit, yeah," Bull said. He gripped the rim of the barrel and sucked in a quick breath before dunking his head. When he surfaced, he sputtered and wiped his mouth, laughing. "Thanks."

Dorian leaned against the side of the tavern, watching Bull cup water in his palms and drink. He immersed his head into the water twice more, sending waves spilling over the barrel's rim. When he was done, he wiped his face and shook the excess water off his hands into the dirt. His skin was gleaming and wet; Dorian couldn't tell the difference between the sweat and water. Small droplets clung to his chest.

Bull caught his eye. He tilted his head.

"Yes, yes, it's a lovely show," Dorian said. He let his gaze drop lower, watching the water travel past Bull's belly. Bull swept his arm forward in an elegant bow. "And what superb form, too."

"Thanks," said Bull cheerfully. He reached for the papers, fingers still damp.

Dorian shook his head and tugged a handkerchief free from his pockets. Bull eyed the fabric with suspicion.

"It's clean," said Dorian, fighting a sigh. He shook the handkerchief.

"Those red flowers are blooming," said Bull, looking guilty. He took the handkerchief and used it to dry his face and hands. "They always make you sneeze."

"Vivienne developed a concoction," Dorian said. He had discovered those flowers in Ferelden, far away from any city. They had been everywhere, making him sneeze and leaving his eyes and nose weeping. That night, Bull had over-spiced his meal, insisting it would open up his nose. It ended up making Dorian sneeze more, which amused Adaar and perplexed Cole. "They don't bother me as much anymore."

He exchanged the sodden handkerchief for Josephine's papers. Bull looked at the first one, frowning.

"You been in the castle all morning?" Bull asked. Dorian nodded. "Oh. Sorry."

Dorian shrugged. He was already tired, but he didn't mind. It was important work. He prefered to be exhausted and grumpy rather than realize too late that he could have done more. "Anything worthwhile?"

"Nah," Bull said, after a moment. He had already skimmed through to the last page. "I might give 'em to Krem and a few others. Coin is always good, and Krem's better with the nobles than I am."

"I doubt that," Dorian said. He had seen Bull interact with nobility several times, and he was always polite and courteous, especially when he was sizing them up for a potential fight. Even in Skyhold, when the Inquisition held more power over negotiations, he was annoyingly charming.

"People are comfortable dealing with a handsome guy in shiny armor," Bull pointed out. He folded the papers into a neat square and tucked them into his boot. "Big horned ones are a little intimidating."

"I would think that's part of the allure," said Dorian. He shifted, folding his arms across his chest.

"Usually," said Bull. He joined Dorian at the tavern wall. His damp arm rubbed against Dorian's shoulder. "But having Krem as the face works out more often than not. Josephine helps, too."

Dorian shrugged. "That does make sense."

In the ring, Krem was circling his opponent. He feinted right and swiftly turned on his heel, throwing his shoulder into the other man. The soldier crumpled to the ground.

"I taught him that one," Bull murmured, brimming with pride.

Krem laughed as he patted the soldier on the back. They went another round, which Krem won. A woman stepped forward, sweeping her hair into a tighter bun on top of her head.

"I should probably return to my research," Dorian said. He hadn't been to the library yet, and now he felt a bit sleepy. Relaxing in the shade with Bull's warmth beside him tended to do that.

Bull glanced away from the match. "You can take a break. Your books will still be there."

"Barring some terrible incident with candles," Dorian said. Bull chuckled. "I suppose I can stay for a little while."

"Good," said Bull. He looked back at the ring. "I like spending time with you."

Dorian muttered nonsense under his breath to hide his smile.

They stayed there in the shade as Krem knocked his opponents onto the ground. Dorian watched, very aware of Bull's presence beside him. The heat radiating off his skin. Their arms, brushing together. He caught himself slowing his breath to match Bull's pace as the daily sounds of Skyhold faded into muffled noise.

It reminded Dorian of nights in the Herald's Rest, Bull's knee against his under a table in the middle of an oblivious crowd. The conversation was always good, and those touches—small, offered without expectations—were a comfort. Strangely intimate. He liked that.

Krem won another bout. Bull raised his arms, applauding.

Dorian wrinkled his nose. "You reek."

"I'll bathe," said Bull. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned down, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "You can watch."

"Promises, promises," Dorian said. Bull's chuckle swelled in the small space between them. "Is that how it is today? You're going to be lewd?"

"Probably," said Bull, shrugging.

"Tell me something, then."

"Anything."

"Your last partner," Dorian said. They hadn't discussed their wager since yesterday, since he had been so busy with work. Bull could be ten men ahead of him by now. "I want to hear about him."

Bull scratched his jaw, digging his nails into the thicker patches of stubble. "Owen."

"The blacksmith?" Dorian asked. Bull shook his head. "The Chantry man? One of Leliana's boys? That soldier with the red beard? The—"

"Okay, okay," Bull interrupted, holding up his hand. "Common name. I get it. I meant the cloth merchant."

"With…the green eyes?" Dorian guessed. He had seen that particular merchant a few times in Skyhold's courtyard.

Bull nodded. He leaned down, his mouth a breath away from Dorian's ear. "I made him come without touching him."

He shifted back, grinning.

"Liar," said Dorian. He ignored how the rumble of Bull's voice made his scalp tingle.

"I have a deep voice," said Bull, as though that explained it. "He likes it. I told him what I was gonna do—"

"That's dirty talk," Dorian cut in. "And it's entirely different."

"Still didn't touch him," Bull pointed out. He leaned closer again. "Didn't take his clothes off, either. Told him to keep his hands to himself and listen."

Dorian tried to imagine it. Owen was an older man, but he had strong arms and thighs from riding horses and carrying crates. He would sit quietly, because Bull told him to. His fingers would twist deeply in the sheets while Bull murmured in a low voice _exactly_ what he planned on doing, if Owen—

"I don't believe you," said Dorian, before this fantasy developed further. Before he imagined the heavy swell of Owen's cock under his trousers. _Maker_ , he thought, and still he added, "Prove it."

Bull wiped sweat off his forehead. The sound of his laughter was dampened behind his hand. "You been sneaking drinks when I wasn't looking? It's too early for you."

"Prove it," Dorian repeated, because he was already sun-drunk and very stubborn and he liked thinking about Bull's voice, Owen's hands, how desperate they must have been to _touch_. "You should prove it."

For a moment, Bull was quiet. He shifted, turning his back to the courtyard. His bulk blocked most of Dorian's view. At this distance, his chest seemed impossibly wide. Dorian curled his fingers into his palms, nails biting at his skin.

"Is that what you want?" Bull asked.

Dorian met his gaze. The lone eye was focused entirely on him. "What are you offering?"

"To show you," Bull answered. Lust jolted through Dorian's belly. "Not with Owen. Someone else."

"You already have a man in mind," Dorian guessed. Bull nodded. "You have a plan for everything, don't you?"

Bull shrugged. One side of his mouth curved up into a crooked smile. "I try. I'm making up most of it."

Well, he was in good company.

Dorian considered the question. He had been the one to say it, after all. He was well aware of his wants, but he wasn't sure how much he intended to share, or if this was even a good idea. There was no denying the fact that the thought of watching Bull with another man excited him. He'd been thinking about something like this for days, ever since Warren recalled his encounter. And he _was_ curious to see if Bull really could bring a man to climax just by talking to him.

Curiosity. That would take the blame every time.

"This—someone," said Dorian slowly. "Will he know I'm there?"

Bull's brow furrowed. "Of course he would." He held up his hand, dismissing Dorian's apology before he could speak. "This guy likes being watched. And he'll like you. He's mentioned you before."

"I have an admirer?"

"You have many," said Bull. His smile widened. "Try to sound more surprised next time."

"That's no fun," said Dorian, overly prim. "Who is he?"

"A soldier," Bull said. After a beat, he added, "Wanna watch me fuck him?"

The casual crudeness of the question stunned Dorian into momentary silence. No dancing around the topic anymore, apparently.

"Would you expect me to join?" Dorian asked. He hadn't done something like that since all those nights wasted away in brothels when he was younger. There had been a few groups in the last week, but all their attention had been on Dorian, not the group at large. Getting your cock sucked next to another man was entirely different from fucking together.

"All he'll want is for you to watch," Bull answered. "You don't like anything, you can leave. And if he gives you a hard time about that, he'll be talking to me."

Dorian nodded. That was fair. He expected that from the Bull.

"I think," said Dorian slowly, because he should at least try. He thought of a nameless figure in bed with the Bull. A show. Bull's eye on him—careful, focused—the way it was now. "I think…yes. Yes, that would be…well, it'll certainly be something, won't it?"

"You sure?" Bull pressed. He returned to the water barrel, splashing more on his face. "You don't sound it."

"I am," said Dorian. He pushed himself away from the tavern and stood at the other side of the barrel. "Yes. Yes," he added quietly, touching the edge of the barrel and leaning down to meet Bull's eye, "I'd like to watch you fuck this man."

"Alright," said Bull. The smile had split into a broad grin. He swept more water onto his arms and shoulders, careful not to splash Dorian. "Come to my room tonight, after midnight. If he's not into it, I'll tell you before the sun sets."

"Tonight," Dorian repeated. He wasn't nervous; he suspected he would be later. "Then I should return to work before you distract me any further." He stepped away, saying the rest over this shoulder. "By the way, this only counts as one for you."

"Same to you, seventeen."

"Eighteen," Dorian corrected. At dawn, he'd met with Sergeant Lennox in the half-built tower. His hands and knees were a little scraped up, but that mild pain had definitely been worth the pleasure. "And you?"

"More than that," was Bull's reply.

Dorian reached blindly behind his head with rude gestures. Bull's laughter followed him into the castle.

*

It didn't really occur to Dorian what he was doing until he was a few steps away from the Herald's Rest. He stopped, boots sinking in the damp grass. What a silly idea this was. He should turn around and go back to his quarters. Bull would understand.

Silly. Yes. This was a foolish idea, built up by too much desire and bravado. _Again_. It didn't matter that it was all Dorian had thought about today—who this man was, what sorts of things Bull would say to him, what Bull sounded like when he came. Their friendship, strange as it was, likely wouldn't be the same after tonight. He wasn't sure how to manage that possibility.

Dorian tightened his cloak and went inside. He slipped between groups of people until he found himself at Bull's room.

"Hey," said Bull, as he opened the door. He beckoned Dorian inside. "Want a drink?"

Dorian nodded. As Bull busied himself with a bottle of red wine, he glanced around the room. He'd only been here once before—to wake Bull up after a long night of drinking, shortly after the mess on the coast. It had been a favor for Krem, who said he didn't want things thrown in his general direction so early in the morning. The furniture was still in the same spots. There were more items of clothing on the floor. More weapons on the walls.

And there was the stranger sitting at the end of the bed.

He was slender for a human, with wiry muscle and a shaved head. He was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, but his Antivan boots looked expensive. His sword belt was empty. Dorian scanned the walls until he found an unfamiliar blade, which was hanging from a stand between two mauls.

"This is Oliver," said Bull. He handed Dorian a glass of wine. "He's one of Cullen's guys. You're usually posted in…the swamps?"

"Yeah," Oliver answered, nodding. He sounded like a Marcher. He glanced at Dorian. "Heard you were there for that trouble with the Avvar. Good fun?"

Dorian had spent most of those weeks in the rain, dodging mauls and corpses and feeling the Fade tear itself to shreds. It had not been very good fun.

"As fun as it ever is," Dorian said. He sipped the wine, which turned out to be a far better vintage than whatever Cabot sold. He would have to ask Bull where he'd bought it. "I'm Dorian Pavus, by the way."

"Yeah," said Oliver again. He smiled. "I know."

Before Dorian could respond, Bull touched his shoulder and pointed at a chair in the corner. "Go ahead and sit. Get comfortable."

The chair was a solid piece of wood with a high back, draped in some fabric. On the table beside it, there was a pitcher of water, a cup, a little jar of oil, and pieces of cloth in a loose stack. It was also within easy distance of the door onto the battlements.

Dorian settled into the chair and took another sip of wine. Bull had thought of everything. How kind.

"C'mere," said Bull quietly. He gestured to Oliver, who leapt off the bed and stood in front of him.

Slowly, they moved closer. It was almost theatrical. Bull's hand framed Oliver's face and tipped his head back for a kiss, angled for Dorian's view. They embraced like old lovers, murmuring quiet words in between kisses.

Dorian watched. He drank his wine.

"I miss the hair," Bull murmured. He rubbed his hand over Oliver's stubbled head. "It was pretty. The curls suited you."

"Kept getting caught in my helmet," said Oliver. He leaned into Bull's touch, smiling.

A history, clearly. Dorian wondered what it was. Hargrave Keep, perhaps, after Adaar defeated the Avvar. If Oliver was a Marcher, he'd probably never seen a Qunari before, unless he was from Kirkwall. If—

Unnecessary. That wasn't the point of this evening. Dorian returned his focus to the two men in front of him.

Oliver was running his hands over Bull's body now, lingering on the scars and the slope of his shoulders. He unbuckled the harness and let it drop with a loud _thunk_.

"That's enough," said Bull, when Oliver's hands drifted towards his belt. "Lie down. I'll take care of you."

Oliver did what he was told. Bull undressed him, starting with the boots. His tunic was next, followed by his trousers, and then Oliver was nude, sprawled over the big bed. Bull glanced over his shoulder.

"Can you see him?"

Dorian's skin prickled. He was very aware that this was the first time he had been acknowledged since he sat down in this chair. Their attention made the room seem to narrow, until it was just a chair and a bed.

"Yes," Dorian answered. His mouth was dry. He blamed the wine. "Yes, I can see you both."

Bull nodded. He knelt on the bed, straddling Oliver's legs. He leaned down, arms bracketing his face, and kissed him. Dorian's view was blocked, but he could hear the quiet sounds of mouths brushing together and see the way Oliver's hips shifted.

It was probably too early to open his trousers.

Dorian placed his empty wine glass on the table and rested his hands on his thighs. He watched Oliver's hands slide over Bull's back. His arms flexed, holding Bull close to him.

"Okay," said Bull. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, facing Dorian, and tugged Oliver into his lap. One arm went around his belly, holding him still. He was balanced a little awkwardly on Bull's thighs, legs dangling a few inches off the ground.

"Maker," Oliver murmured. His cock was heavy, curving up towards his stomach. When he tried to touch himself, Bull batted his hand away. "Oh, just the one touch. Let me get one in before—"

"I'll take care of you," said Bull again. He tipped his head to the side, mindful of the horns, and kissed Oliver's neck. "Watch him."

Dorian wasn't certain who he was talking to. He met Oliver's eyes, watching the other man arch into empty air.

"You watching?"

"Yes," said Dorian, just as Oliver murmured, "Yes, yes—"

Bull started whispering into Oliver's ear. Dorian couldn't hear it, and the dim lighting made it difficult to read the Bull's lips, but he could see the effect. Oliver's mouth hung open. His fingers scrambled at the Bull's thighs.

It couldn't be something as simple as _I'm going to fuck you_. Or _look at you_ , or _don't touch yourself yet_ , or _keep watching Dorian, just like that_ —

Oliver moaned, the sound ripped deep from his chest.

Dorian dug his fingers into his thighs. Would it be better to hear what Bull was saying, or would that be a disappointment compared to his imagination? It didn't matter, truly. He could still hear a ghost of Bull's voice in his ear. The rough scrape of it against his throat. The low chuckle. The way his jaw clenched around an unfamiliar word.

 _Beautiful_ , Bull was saying, and then something that made Oliver slump deeper into his chest.

— _taste of you_ —

_—fit two in you before I—_

_—see you come first—_

Oliver was moving, fingers stretching towards his cock. Bull caught his arm. He ran his hands along Oliver's shoulders and took hold of his wrists, locking his hands together behind his back. He stilled, eye fixed on Oliver's face.

It was what Oliver wanted. He sighed and tipped his head back, pressing his mouth to Bull's jaw. His hips rocked into nothing.

"Please," said Oliver, and, "Oh, _Maker_ ," and, "Bull, please—"

Dorian could not wait any longer. He palmed himself through his trousers, watching Oliver move.

That got Bull's attention. He stilled—for just a moment, and his gaze was so heavy that Dorian could _feel_ the weight of it on his hand, on his cock, on every inch of his skin trapped under too much clothing—

Oliver was nearly silent when he came, mouth hanging open. He sank into Bull's chest. Dorian withdrew his hand.

"Thank you," Oliver murmured. He sucked in a deep breath. "Thank you." He arched and angled for a kiss, giving Dorian a clear view of Bull's grin. "Will you fuck me now?"

"Be patient," said Bull. He eased Oliver onto the bed before he stood and began rummaging in a side table. He took out a cloth, which he used to wipe Oliver's chest and cock clean. "I miss anything?"

Oliver shook his head. He reached over, fingers dancing over Bull's thigh before groping him. Bull grunted.

Dorian flexed his hands. Bull's cock would be heavy in his fingers, and he would make that sound when Dorian opened his throat.

"Patience," Bull reminded him. He tossed the dirty cloth into the corner and opened the drawer again to retrieve a small jar of oil, which he placed on the table.

_Wanna watch me fuck him?_

"Dorian," said Bull. He was standing a few paces away, holding a bottle of wine. He pointed at the empty wine glass.

"I'll just have the bottle," said Dorian. His voice sounded small, like he was far away.

Bull stepped closer and handed him the wine. Their fingers touched. Dorian was very warm. He could not drag his eyes away from the thick bulge in Bull's trousers—

"You good?" Bull asked.

Dorian jerked his head up, nodding. He wondered how flushed he was. If Bull noticed.

"Yes," Dorian answered. He thumbed at the bottle's opening. "I believe you now. About the talking."

That drew a small chuckle from Oliver. He patted the bed, saying, "Get over here and fuck me, Bull." He glanced at Dorian. "Would you like that?"

"Yes," Dorian said again, because he was unable to think of anything clever. He couldn't focus. He wanted to _touch_ —to watch, more than anything. "Oh, yes."

"You heard the man," said Oliver. It sounded like he was smiling.

Bull didn't move. He was still studying Dorian carefully.

"Please," Dorian said.

Something rumbled in Bull's throat, caught between a grunt and a moan. His lips parted.

"Please," Dorian said again, lowering his voice to a murmur. "Please, Bull."

Bull returned to the bed.

No time was wasted. A pillow under Oliver's hips, his knees open and bent. Bull's fingers, coated in oil. _Like this_ and _yes_ and _more than that, c'mon_ and low, deep chuckles. Bull's hand on his thigh, thick fingers opening him up.

Dorian was glad he had chosen loose-fitting clothing instead of his usual robes. He pushed his shirt up, leaving his stomach bare. He lifted his hips and unlaced his trousers, tugging them down past his thighs. The sound drew their attention; Bull's shoulders shifted, and Oliver's eyes flicked towards him. In the corner, draped in shadows, and still, Oliver stared. He licked his lips and _stared_ , watching Dorian's fingers drag slowly over his length. His cock was full, straining towards his belly, but his hands stayed fisted in the sheets.

"That's good," Oliver said, with three of Bull's fingers in him. His eyes were half-lidded, neck craned to watch Dorian. "Fuck me. Fuck me, please."

Bull undressed. Kicking off trousers wasn't particularly erotic, but that hardly mattered. He was nude and thick and _big_ , standing in the dim candlelight without shame.

Dorian stared. He had seen Bull naked before—bathing in streams, changing clothes in camp, tugging his armor out of the way for a surgeon. He knew the scars, the still-healing bruises, the wounds that had never healed properly. The mark on his left thigh was from an arrow in the Hinterlands. In the swamps, a demon's claws had torn into his shoulders. Others, he could guess. The deep scar on his abdomen could have been from Orlais; whatever happened there made Krem's jaw clench. The ruined eye, still hidden under a patch. Seheron.

"Bull," said Oliver, impatient.

"I hear you," Bull said. He was slicking his cock— _Maker_ —with the oil. Some dripped onto the floor. "I won't keep you waiting."

Dorian watched. He sucked on his fingers until they were wet.

"Fuck," Oliver hissed. Bull was above him, easing his knees back against his chest. "Oh, fuck. Fuck—no, no, it's good, it's— _fuck_ —"

Bull shifted. One big hand covered Oliver's thigh, holding him steady. He flattened the other against the wall, leaning his weight into it.

"Look at you," Bull said, in wonder. His chest heaved with each breath. He leaned down, pressing a long kiss to Oliver's temple. "Shit, look at you."

Oliver begged, back arched.

"I know," Bull murmured. He was moving slowly, hand still curled protectively over Oliver's hip. "I know."

A grunt. The slap of skin on skin. A chuckle from Oliver when Bull's hand brushed his ribs. Skin rubbing against the sheets. Bull's back, flexing. Dorian was warm, head thick with wine. He rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the fluid gathered there.

"Oh, blessed Andraste," Oliver said. He gripped Bull's horns with one hand and fisted his cock with the other, cursing. "Blessed, sweet Andraste—"

Dorian looked at Oliver and saw himself, stretched and _full_ with the Bull's weight above him and calloused fingers around his cock. Bull would be careful and precise, just as he was now, and he would touch Dorian gently, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to—

"That's good," Bull was saying. Oliver panted against his mouth. "Do you want—?"

Oliver nodded. Bull covered his hand. He tensed, arching into their linked fingers.

"He's watching you," Bull murmured. Dorian's skin was on _fire_. "He likes it. Not as much as you, I bet, but you've got me with you."

 _Unfair advantage_ darted wildly into Dorian's thoughts. He bit his tongue, watching Oliver spill over the joined hands. Bull stroked him through it, gentle and slow.

Dorian did the same, watching Oliver's chest rise and fall.

Oliver murmured something and groped at the air until he found a horn and tugged it. Bull made a low noise in the pit of his throat and bent down, biting at Oliver's collarbone. Oliver dug his fingers into Bull's shoulders, holding him there. He watched Dorian, grinning, until Bull moved up for a kiss. Their mouths knocked against each other, sloppy and wet.

"Oh," Dorian murmured, the word lost to the sounds from the bed. Bull was passionate and sweet and absolutely _obscene_ , and none of it felt fake. "I—"

His balls were drawn tight and Bull was grunting, driving into Oliver. Dorian gasped, sudden and too loud. He shoved his free hand into his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. Oliver's gaze never left.

Dorian sank into the chair, gently touching his damp belly. Bull had shifted, sitting on his heels with his prick between Oliver's thighs. Dorian's cock twitched.

He knew what Bull sounded like when he came. There was a sharp breath, quickly overtaken by a moan. His eye squeezed shut. His hips jerked, then stilled. He bowed his head, murmuring to Oliver. Oliver replied. Something about Bull's knee, Dorian guessed, since Bull shrugged and pushed his fingers into his knee.

He stayed where he was, slumped in a chair with come strewn over his belly. Bull eased onto the bed beside Oliver and sprawled on his side, horns angled carefully away from the headboard.

Bull. Nude and happy, stained with sweat and semen. It was difficult to look away. Dorian closed his eyes, only to think about the gentle touches and the low rumble of his voice. He sank deeper into the chair, wishing for Bull's hands on his skin.

A cleared throat. "How's that?"

"Eh." Dorian could hear the shrug. "I've had better." A curse, followed by laughter. "Oh, c'mere. Give us a kiss."

Soft kisses. Humming. Dorian ached.

Silence. It was thick, pounding against Dorian's ears. He opened his eyes and glanced down at himself. Not much of a mess, thankfully. He used one of the linens Bull had provided.

"Leave that on the floor," said Bull, once Dorian was finished. He was pressing small kisses to Oliver's throat. "I'll take care of it."

Dorian did so. He dressed and reached for the wine, trying to decide how to leave as efficiently and politely as possible. It would probably be best to do that soon, now that the deed was done. 

The bed creaked. Bull stepped into the trousers, not bothering to lace them up or use a belt, and touched Oliver's wrist.

"I'll come back to you in a minute," Bull murmured. He jerked his head towards Dorian. "Let me check on our guest."

"Okay," said Oliver, his voice thick with fatigue. He didn't move. There was still come and sweat splattered over his chest and thighs.

Dorian tipped the bottle back, drinking the last of the wine. He wiped his mouth.

"I'm fine," said Dorian. It wasn't entirely a lie. He placed the empty bottle on the table and stood, tugging his clothing straight. "Stop worrying about me."

Bull shrugged as he walked over. He came to a stop directly in front of Dorian, blocking Oliver's view.

"I'm not worried," said Bull, his voice low. He smelled like sex. The entire room did. "Can I look at you?"

What an odd question. They were already looking each other in the eye, barely a pace apart. "If you must."

"Thanks," Bull said, and his big hand touched Dorian's cheek, tilting his head back.

Dorian stilled. He nearly closed his eyes. Bull could cover his face with a palm, if he wanted to. His brows were drawn together, concerned. He was smiling.

[](http://hyliari.tumblr.com/post/150307314605/adoribull-minibang-illustrations-for-zythepsarys)

A simple look and a tender touch, and Dorian was filled with overwhelming warmth and comfort. He wasn't certain he deserved it. Bull was kind and thoughtful and, for some unfathomable reason, cared about him. Enjoyed his company. Was perhaps fond of him.

"Hey," Bull said. He thumbed Dorian's cheekbone. "There you are."

 _I think I could love you_ , Dorian thought. His insides tilted sideways, as though he were scrambling for purchase on a ship's deck.

What a fool he was.

[](http://hyliari.tumblr.com/post/150307314605/adoribull-minibang-illustrations-for-zythepsarys)

"Here I am," said Dorian. He considered turning his face into Bull's hand. Perhaps Bull would like that. Guilt soured his thoughts; he would probably enjoy it more. "We're fine, Bull. This was…a very pleasant evening."

Bull's smile widened. His hand was so _warm_. "Yeah. It was fun."

"We're fine," Dorian repeated. He ducked out of Bull's touch, reaching to squeeze those thick fingers before his hand fell away. A small touch. Irrelevant. It still made his heart rattle against his ribs.

As they separated, Oliver patted the bed and said, "Before you go."

In the time it took for Dorian to hesitate and chastise himself for doing so, Bull nodded and stepped away. He began to put the empty glasses and bottles on a tray. Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, feeling somewhat like he was intruding on something. Particularly since Oliver was still dirty, marked with Bull's fingers and teeth.

"Hello," said Oliver cheerfully. He shifted, stretching. Bull's mouth had left a dark mark on his throat. "I wanted to thank you."

"I should be doing that," Dorian said. He tilted his head towards his chair. "All I did was watch."

Oliver chuckled. He reached into Dorian's lap and touched one of his hands, running his thumb along Dorian's fingers. Dorian held the wandering hand between his palms, noting the familiar calluses. Oliver was a left-handed swordsman.

He looked good like this, sweaty and pleased with come drying on his skin. As if he wasn't handsome enough already. Dorian studied his features—the sturdy jaw, his thick nose, warm brown eyes, the faded scar under his chin. He hadn't looked too closely before. Too nervous, perhaps.

"Well, you were very good," said Oliver, grinning. He liked to talk in and out of bed; no wonder Bull liked him. "Do you have much practice?"

"I do my fair share," said Dorian lightly. He could not look away from that mark. He reached, hesitating, until Oliver closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He touched the skin, rubbing his fingers along the shape of Bull's mouth. "You enjoyed yourself."

Oliver hummed, scratching his belly. He grimaced and wiped his hand on the sheet.

Dorian glanced around and found a cloth waiting on the bedside table. He folded it into a square and squeezed, soaking it in Fade-made water. When it was warm, he began to clean Oliver's skin.

A bottle clanged and rolled across the room. Bull bent over to pick it up, grunting. "Hey, that's my job."

"He's magic, though," Oliver murmured. He shifted, opening his thighs.

It didn't take long to clean his stomach. His cock and balls were next, which Dorian tried to handle as appropriately as a surgeon would, and then lower, between his thighs. Oliver sighed, smiling.

Dorian had always enjoyed this part. Sometimes, being kissed and held and cleaned felt more intimate than the act itself. He thought Bull did, too, after seeing him treat Oliver with such tenderness. All those slow touches and long kisses.

When Oliver was clean, Dorian left the dirty cloth onto the floor with the others.

"Here," said Oliver, catching Dorian's hand. He brought it to the mark on his throat. "You like this, don't you?"

Bull was silent, but Dorian could feel his eye. He nodded.

"Do what you want, then," said Oliver. He lifted his chin.

Something tipped over in Dorian's belly. He leaned down. The ghost of Bull's lips parted under his fingers as he pressed his mouth against the mark. Oliver made a sweet sound and curled his fingers in Dorian's hair.

Kissing the same spot that Bull had marked only minutes ago was _exhilarating_. Dorian's head spun. He did it again, seeking the faint lines of Bull's mouth. Oliver's fingers tightened. His pulse pounded under Dorian's tongue.

"You ought to kiss me," Oliver murmured, so Dorian did. He tasted faintly of wine. "And again, please."

An easy request. Dorian accepted it without complaint, aware of Bull's shadow somewhere behind them, looming over the bed. He rather liked that, even as his heart thumped against his ribs.

"Would you like to stay?" Oliver asked. His eyes flicked towards Bull, then back to Dorian. He rubbed his fingers in small circles, curling around Dorian's ear. "Bet you'd look nice in the morning."

Before Dorian could even consider the question, Bull cleared his throat and said, "He'd be late for a meeting with the Nightingale."

There was no such meeting. Another exit, if Dorian needed it. Thoughtful. His chest swelled with mortifying gratitude.

He didn't think about the offer too long. His prick said _yes_ , as he thought of joining them in bed and watching them fuck again, but—no. His head was still spinning; he was too focused on Bull. That wouldn't be fair to Oliver.

"That's not something you do twice," said Dorian. He thumbed at Oliver's mouth before leaning down and kissing him again. "Sleep well."

Oliver's hand slipped away as Dorian stood. Bull was waiting at the door, hand on the knob. He nodded when Dorian approached.

"You having breakfast with Vivienne tomorrow?" Bull asked. His free hand flexed absently at his side.

"Honeyed scones," said Dorian. Surely, there was proper etiquette here, but he was unsure of it. It seemed rude to kiss Oliver and not Bull, and yet that felt like a leap over a giant chasm. "And that dreadful flowery tea she likes so much."

"I can bring cocoa for you instead," Bull offered. His hand was twitching again.

"I'd like that," said Dorian. Perhaps they ought to hug, or shake hands. A firm pat on the shoulder—that was chaste enough. Maybe Bull could hold his face again. "Thank you."

Bull turned the knob. Dorian put his palm against the door.

Impulsive. Rash. A poor decision, falling in line with all the rest. The door remained shut.

"Hey," Bull said, so gently. He kept his voice low. "Talk to me."

"I," was Dorian's poor first attempt. He took a step closer, awaiting Bull's response. A nod. "It's—it's rather complicated."

The hand fell off the door. Dorian was acutely aware of Oliver just out of sight, facing the opposite wall. To give some measure of privacy, he assumed, and he was grateful for it.

"Well, you see…" Dorian tried again. Another nod. "I find myself—" He stopped, caught between a sigh and a curse, and gathered what little courage he could muster. He held onto Bull's shoulder, using him for balance as he closed the distance between them.

It was not his best kiss. It might have been his worst. He perched awkwardly on his toes, grasping at the sweaty skin under his palm while his other arm dangled uselessly at his side.

But Bull said, "Oh," and made a small sound, like laughter, and pulled him closer. He held Dorian's face in his hands and sighed, seeking his tongue. Rough stubble rubbed against Dorian's skin.

They parted. Bull didn't let go. Dorian dug his fingers into Bull's shoulder.

"Thank you," Dorian said. Clumsily, because he was distracted by the firm press of Bull's body against his. "This was...I liked it."

Bull's eye darted all over his face, searching. "You're welcome."

The Iron Bull, nervous? A rarity. Dorian kissed him again, expecting nothing. He felt the Bull's body slump with relief.

"I think," said Dorian, with new confidence, "that you and I should talk."

"Okay," Bull said, nodding. He shifted his left hand, pressing fingers into the soft skin behind Dorian's ear. "We can do that."

"I fear that I may ask more of you," Dorian murmured. Bull drew him closer and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. "More than you usually share with someone." Their mouths brushed together. Old worries dipped in Dorian's belly. "Do you understand? Please don't ask me to explain it all right now. Humiliation has already done countless horrors to my complexion."

Bull snorted, saying, "Yeah, horrors," as he traced Dorian's jawline. "I don't know. I can guess. I could be wrong."

"So could I," Dorian pointed out. What a terrible thought to bring into the world. He grimaced.

"Then we'll talk," Bull said. Another small kiss, and then he leaned away. His mouth was red. "Tomorrow. Or the next day. When you want." 

"Tomorrow," Dorian echoed. Bull lowered his hands. He missed them already. "Thank you. You shouldn't have to be this kind."

Bull hitched one shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug, offering a crooked smile.

"Really, this constant acceptance thing you're so fond of is almost irritating," Dorian added. With great effort, he released Bull's shoulder and eased back. "Be annoyed with me, won't you?"

"I am, sometimes," Bull said. He reached for Dorian again, hesitating, and touched Dorian's cheek. Thick fingers brushed across his skin. "But not now."

 _I could love you_.

Dorian swallowed. He raised Bull's hand to his mouth and kissed the scarred knuckles, because he could. Bull's fingers tightened around his.

"Good night, Dorian," said Bull quietly. He let go.

"Good night," said Dorian. He glanced at Oliver, who still had his back to them. "Give him a kiss from me, please. Perhaps two or three."

"I'll see what I can do," Bull said, smiling. He opened the door.

Dorian left, his mind still jumbled.

* * *

Dorian awoke with the expectation that his feelings, likely aggravated by sex, would subside. They hadn't.

He would have to ignore them, for a little while. He had a busy day planned; he could contemplate a discussion with Bull later. There were scones to steal—borrow, the cook said, with a wink—and old reports on House Amladaris to examine with Ida. They spent the morning reading, transcribing, and, at one point, debating over verb usage so intensely that Leliana peered over the railing, concerned. 

By mid-afternoon, the bells began to ring. The Herald had returned.

Dorian joined the waiting crowds. The air was bitter near the gates. He huddled deeper in his cloak, scowling. He wished Adaar had found an abandoned castle somewhere warmer.

"I'll try for that next time," said Adaar dryly. She gathered her horse's reins in one hand and swept her leg over the saddle, landing in the mud with a wet _squelch_. "Did I miss anything while we were away?"

"Oh, the usual," Dorian said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Josephine waiting at the edge of the crowd with Leliana and Cullen. "Ask your lady. I'm sure she'll... _advise_ you."

"That never gets old for you, does it," said Adaar, chuckling when Dorian shook his head. She opened a saddlebag and pulled out a bouquet of flowers. They were crushed and dry, tied together with a piece of leather. "Ah, shit. I should've picked fresh ones today."

"Nah," said Sera, as she collided with Dorian in a bone-crunching hug. He groaned, groping around the air until he found her back and patted it. "She'd turn pink if you gave her horse shit."

"Please do," said Dorian, with Sera's arms still wrapped around his neck. He ruffled her hair and nearly lost his fingers to the tangles. "I'd like to hear how Varric spins that."

"I'm walking away now," Adaar informed them. She handed the horse's reins to a waiting stableboy and headed for Josephine, wilted flowers clasped in her palms. "Hello, love. I'm sorry we're late."

"I wasn't worried," Josephine said, which was a lie. Adaar was two days late, and Josephine had started worrying four days ago. Dorian had noted the packed schedule—well, more than usual—and the faint smell of her favorite tea in the rookery.

They embraced. Josephine pressed a lingering kiss to Adaar's cheek and murmured something in her ear. Dorian couldn't see Adaar's expression, but he was fairly certain he could guess. They walked towards the castle, Cullen and Leliana trailing a respectable distance behind. Dorian doubted anyone would see them for a few hours.

"Hey!" Sera shouted, with her mouth directly next to Dorian's ear. He grimaced. She lifted her arms, waving.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder and spotted Bull, standing on a balcony next to Vivienne.

For a moment, he couldn't focus on anything but the memory of Bull's hand on his cheek. The first kiss, and the next. Oliver, tipping his head back for Dorian's mouth. Anticipation and hesitation, tangling together in an unfortunate mess. He was grateful he could hide everything under a cloak and Sera's wild waving.

Bull raised his hand, wiggling his fingers. Sera gestured with two fingers. Vivienne gave her a curt nod.

"She loves it," said Sera smugly. She released Dorian—finally—and knocked into his side again. It felt like he was dealing with a particularly excited mabari. "Missed me, yeah?'

"No one thought to belch or pass wind in my general direction while you were gone," said Dorian. He adjusted his cloak, aligning it neatly along his neck. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Sera pondered that for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. "Sad. Yeah, you'd be all sad and mopey and bored."

"It's entirely possible," said Dorian. He offered her his arm. "May I escort you to the castle? I know you're hungry."

"Why, thank you, _ser_ ," Sera said, contorting her limbs into something like a curtsy. She linked their arms together and all but dragged him towards the front hall.

*

The rest of the day continued on. He and Ida were likely growing closer to Corypheus's name; he could nearly see how all the pieces connected together. Cassandra stopped by the library to gift him a bottle of brandy, which he had asked for, in jest, as they rode away. Leliana shared the latest news from Tevinter—nothing they didn't already know, but it was another reminder that Mae was healthy and well, which he appreciated.

Bull kept his distance. Dorian almost wished he hadn't.

"Oh, good," said Adaar, from behind a stack of papers. She pushed them to the side and beckoned Dorian into her quarters. Her fingers were splattered with ink. "You got my message."

"I see you've already started," said Dorian. She often asked for his help with correspondence, rather than Josephine or Vivienne. He wasn't sure why—all he did was offer the occasional suggestion and tease her for murmuring to herself as she wrote—but it had become a tradition of theirs since they arrived at Skyhold. "Who are we writing today?"

"A duke," Adaar answered. She wiped her fingers on her trousers, smearing the ink over her knees. "I'm thanking him for his support and asking for more."

"What fun," said Dorian. He walked over to her bookshelves, glancing at the titles. He frowned. Cassandra had been here recently, or Varric. Far too much romance and swashbuckling, unless Adaar had grown a taste for it. "Do you have that Kirkwall one of Varric's? I'd like to re-read it, now that I know a bit more about the people he based everyone on."

"Top left," Adaar answered. She smoothed a fresh sheet of paper.

Dorian retrieved the book and settled into a chair on the balcony, where he spent the next hour. Varric's writing was decent. _Hard in Hightown_ felt more like an affectionate letter to a city than a tale of corruption and hard-working guards. It was easy to see how much he cared for his home.

As he read—aloud, sometimes, when he found particularly good passages—Adaar continued to work. Every ten minutes or so, she asked for help with wording and sentence structure.

"There," said Adaar, when she was done. Paper rustled. "Thanks. I'm making a drink. Would you like one?"

"No, thank you."

Adaar joined him on the balcony. She sat in the other chair, wriggling until she was comfortable. She had crafted both chairs months ago, when Skyhold was still a crumbling disaster with too many people and not enough space. Woodworking was a hobby for her, not a profession, but she had been doing it to quiet her mind long enough that the laborers were impressed with her skill. Dorian expected the front hall would be filled with new tables and benches as the Orlesian ball drew closer; Adaar was dreading it.

Dorian closed _Hard in Hightown_ and tipped his head back, watching the night sky. Adaar sipped her whiskey.

"Something's on your mind," said Adaar, after a few minutes had passed. "Do you want to talk, or are you still chewing on it?"

"It's nothing, really," Dorian replied. He drummed his fingers along the book's cover. "I may have done something unwise."

Adaar glanced at him, concerned. "Something you'll regret?"

Dorian shrugged. "Possibly. Who knows." When her expression didn't change, he added, "It won't affect you. Well—it won't affect the Inquisition. I hope."

Blackwall had briefly courted Josephine from afar before Adaar swept her off her feet, and they still worked together without animosity. Sera had no attempts to hide her appreciation of Adaar, Cassandra, Dagna, and—well, not that Dorian thought about it, a good deal of the women in Skyhold, and none of them were uncomfortable with her. If this little dance with Bull didn't end the way Dorian wanted it to, he had evidence that it didn't have to be an utter disaster.

"I believe you," said Adaar, raising her glass.

"You're not curious?" Dorian asked.

"Oh, I am." Adaar sank deeper into the chair and rested her boots on the railing. She glanced at him, smiling faintly. "But I'll wait until you tell me, so I can say I knew all along."

*

They talked about her latest expedition and Dorian's research until the guards changed shifts. Dorian entered the empty front hall, aware of every sound his boots made against the stone. At night, the castle was quieter; everyone was asleep, in the tavern, or on duty.

He looked at the door that lead to the stairs. His quarters. He ought to gather his thoughts before speaking with Bull, but stewing in his own mind, anticipating possibilities—no. He'd done that already. He'd spent too much time wondering.

Dorian headed for the tavern.

It was an average night. Mostly soldiers and merchants, swapping stories and losing coin on darts with Sera. Bull was standing at the corner of the bar, nursing an ale. Alone. He looked up when Dorian approached his good side, but he didn't say anything.

"You're the Iron Bull, aren't you," said Dorian. He kept his voice low, just below the murmur of the crowd. "That mercenary."

Confusion flickered over Bull's face. It was quickly replaced with relief.

"Yeah," said Bull, nodding. He picked up his drink. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm Dorian." He offered a quick bow. "Originally of House Pavus."

Bull lowered his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Never heard of it."

"I suppose that's a good thing," said Dorian. He shifted, angling his back to the crowd. "I hear you and I have a lot of things in common."

Bull grinned. He rested his elbow on the counter, leaning his weight into it. "You hitting on me, Vint?"

"Goodness, I thought I was being subtle," Dorian murmured. Bull's grin grew wider. "Yes, I am."

"Nice," Bull said. His gaze flicked up and down Dorian's body, slow enough to be deliberate. "I've had my eye on you, you know."

Dorian took a step closer, mimicking Bull's posture. He could feel himself stretching into Bull's warmth, like a flower seeking sunlight.

"I would say the same," said Dorian, as he beckoned Cabot closer, "but I fear what more confidence will do to your poor head."

He bought an ale for himself and a refill for Bull, and began a conversation about the Inquisition. Bull asked him pointed questions about what he thought of it, being from Tevinter. They'd had similar discussions in the early days. In fact, Dorian was certain he'd asked the same questions before. Finding his response was easy, like following a script.

"I could ask you the same, Qunari," Dorian said, because he was meant to be a lost mage from Tevinter who saw horns and didn't know any better. Still, he flinched when Bull glanced away.

"I'm not Qunari anymore."

Dorian shifted his weight. He considered stepping out of the scene he'd made for the two of them, but Bull looked up and offered him a small smile.

"Does that bother you?" Dorian asked.

Bull picked up his ale. "Not as much as it used to."

Dorian forgot himself, saying, "That's good," because he _was_ proud and happy for Bull, but a magister's son wouldn't know. Wouldn't care, either. Thankfully, Bull ignored the slip and changed the subject.

An hour passed. Perhaps two. They drank and talked, tucked away in the corner of the tavern, while the bard lead the crowd into dancing. Sera's rapid cackle rose above it with every win.

Bull set his drink down and took a step closer, nearly between Dorian's legs. He still leaned against the counter, free hand resting casually against his thigh. Dorian wondered if he was impatient, or just seeing how far they intended to push this tonight.

"I like the looming," Dorian said. He tipped his head back, watching Bull's eye focus on his mouth. "I would have a better view from your bed."

It was a terrible line. He cringed internally when he thought it, and he couldn't quite mask his grimace when he said it. He should have guessed that Bull would love it.

"Yeah?" Bull said, beaming.

"Oh, yes," Dorian said. On the counter, their hands were nearly touching. "Yes, please."

"Okay," Bull said. He leaned down, murmuring, "I'm going upstairs." His mouth was hot against Dorian's ear. He touched Dorian's hand. "I'll wait for you."

He left. Dorian paid for their drinks and waited a few minutes before following him.

*

Upstairs, Bull was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed only in his trousers. He was pulling his boots off.

"Getting started without me?" Dorian asked, shutting the door. The sounds of the crowd below disappeared. He tugged the lock into place. "I might consider that rude."

"Just these," Bull answered. He pushed the boots under the bed. "No one likes watching a guy take his boots off. Takes up too much time."

Dorian stepped away from the door. Bull was still on the edge of the bed, hands flat on his knees.

"I suppose," Dorian said. He stopped when he was between Bull's knees. There was so much _skin_ to touch; he didn't know where to begin. "Save the rest for me."

Bull nodded. He was waiting, Dorian realized with a jolt. How patient.

The shoulders were first. Thick, heavy, and marked with scars, just like the rest of him. Dorian traced the scars along Bull's arms and followed them to his chest, and then his soft belly. Not ticklish; he didn't flinch when Dorian ran his hands along his ribs. He smiled when Dorian touched his cheeks, thumbing at the dark stubble.

"I like that," Bull said. His voice rumbled in Dorian's chest. "I like the way your hands feel."

"Thank you," Dorian murmured. He traced Bull's mouth, feeling the smile grow. Maker.

They were too far apart. He could slip into Bull's lap, push him onto the bed, and sink onto his cock in a matter of minutes, but he wouldn't. He needed to be patient. He wanted this to last. He wanted to feel every inch of Bull's skin under his hands first. 

A touch, to start with. He took Bull's hand and guided it to his hip. There was an absurd amount of strength in that hand; he could feel it when Bull flexed his fingers, stretching them over Dorian's back.

"And how do you like _my_ hands?" Bull prompted.

"They're lovely, you oaf," Dorian said, unable to hide the fondness expanding in his chest. He held Bull's face in his hands and moved as close as he could, until his legs bumped against the bed. "We can stop pretending that we've just met."

"It was kinda hot," said Bull. He fit his hands over Dorian's hips, plucking at clasps and buckles without undoing anything.

"Another time, perhaps."

"Yeah, another time."

Bull said it like it was a familiar joke between them. It probably was, Dorian realized. They had danced around each other for too long. There probably would be a second time. And a third, and a fourth, and until they stopped counting.

"There goes your poor head again," Dorian said. He leaned down, placing a kiss on Bull's temple. The skin at the base of his horns was rougher than he expected. Sensitive, maybe, since Bull's fingers tensed at the touch. He stayed there, listening to Bull breathe, and told Bull to undress him.

Bull pulled at the clasps and buckles on his robes. Moments later, Dorian was in his underclothes. He kicked his robes and boots away, out of sight.

"Tell me what you want," said Bull. He touched Dorian's hands, thumbing at his wrists. "I'll give you everything."

Dorian could believe that.

"Lie down," Dorian told him, and Bull did. He tugged Bull's trousers and underclothes down and off, looking at the new skin for him to touch. The twisted scar on his ankle. Thick, muscled thighs. His heavy cock.

He knelt on the bed, straddling Bull's hips. Bull's hands stayed still on the bed until Dorian said, "Touch me," and they were _everywhere_. Touching his face, flattened against his back, tracing his arse and the hair on his belly. Thumbs pressed into his hips. Fingers on the faded scar on his belly, courtesy of a a lucky dagger.

"I have thought of this," Dorian said. He planted his hands in the bed above Bull's shoulders, bracing himself over Bull's body. Bull's cock rubbed against his, separated by a thin layer of fabric. "For a long time. To be honest, I have thought of little else for the past few weeks."

"Why'd you wait?" Bull asked, hands fitting neatly over Dorian's hips. He tugged Dorian closer. "You knew I wanted you."

"You aren't exactly subtle," Dorian said. He watched the laughter spread over Bull's body—the smile, the crinkled skin around his eye, the way his belly shook. "But I—I care about you."

Bull was still smiling. He wrapped his arms around Dorian's back, holding him impossibly close.

"Deeply," Dorian added. He captured Bull's mouth in a brief kiss. Bull's arms tightened. "And I have wondered if you might feel the same."

He stilled, waiting. Anticipating. Bracing.

"I know," Bull murmured. One hand traced Dorian's spine, nails lightly scratching the skin. "And I—I think I do. I," and he paused, eye falling somewhere over Dorian's shoulder. "Shit, I like you, Dorian." He met Dorian's eyes again, adding, "A lot."

"Well," said Dorian, dimly aware of his grin. His cheeks ached. He reached back for one of Bull's hands, guiding it towards his underclothes. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't it."

"I think so," Bull said. He reached under the fabric, palming Dorian's prick. "You gotta tell me what to do. This is new for me."

Dorian wriggled, trying to tug his underclothes off in a somewhat dignified manner. They ended up at the end of the bed, hanging off the edge.

"We'll come up with something," said Dorian. He reached between them and wrapped his fingers around Bull's cock, watching the lone eye grow dark. "Eventually."

"Eventually," Bull echoed. He brushed Dorian's hand away and spat into his palm before gripping their cocks together in his fist. Dorian bit back a moan. "This, though. This I know. What d'you want?"

"I want," said Dorian, rocking into Bull's touch, "to feel your skin against mine. I want to kiss—"

Immediately, Bull's mouth was on his, tasting faintly of ale. Dorian rested his palm on Bull's cheek, gently tilting his jaw. Bull's other hand drifted from his shoulders, lower.

"I suppose fucking me would be nice," Dorian said. Bull's index finger slowly circled his hole. "But I don't know if I have the patience for that now. _Flames_ , your hands." Bull's palm covered Dorian's hip, fingers extended towards his arse. "Why are they so big?"

Bull chuckled. He stroked them both, almost too slowly.

"Patience," Bull said. His chest heaved. "Me, neither. You good like this?"

Dorian nodded. He was stumbling quickly towards the edge, trapped between both of Bull's marvelous hands and the steady warmth of his body. He sighed, placing a damp trail of kisses from the corner of Bull's mouth to his neck.

They stayed quiet, for the most part. Dorian's moans were lost in Bull's neck. Bull murmured praise and curses, his lips brushing against Dorian's forehead, and when he came, it was with a groan. Dorian followed, thrusting eagerly into Bull's fist.

"Good," Bull told him, when Dorian was spent and slumped. His voice scratched against Dorian's chest. "Yeah, that's good. C'mere." A soft, slow kiss; Dorian could feel Bull's grin. "You should stay for a bit. Want a drink?" 

"Yes and yes," Dorian said. Both answers came quicker than he anticipated. He pushed himself off and sprawled on the bed beside Bull, stretching.

Bull wiped the come off their stomachs before he stood and ambled around the room, searching. He returned with a bottle of wine. Dorian sat up, leaning against the headboard.

"Worth the wait?" Bull asked, with the cork still clenched between his teeth. He settled onto the bed beside Dorian, shoulders slightly hunched, and spat the cork over the side. It tumbled across the floor.

"Yes," Dorian answered. Bull's face brightened with a grin. "I had imagined you being…rougher, after all your talk. Pinning me to the bed, and so on."

"You approached me," said Bull. He took a hefty swallow from the bottle before passing it to Dorian. "Figured you'd want to be in charge at first. But yeah, I can do that."

Dorian drank, thinking of his half-remembered fantasies. Bull, holding him down. Tying him up. A palm across his arse. Straining for release. Begging.

"We'll need to make a list," said Dorian. Bull chuckled. "That is, if you want more of me."

Bull plucked the bottle out of his hands, nodding.

"Good," said Dorian slowly. Sudden panic gripped him, settling sourly in his belly. "That's. That's good."

Bull, who could probably sense discomfort from across continents, glanced down at him. He frowned.

"I do enjoy your company," said Dorian. The words were coming faster, threatening to overtake his thoughts. "And I do want to spend more time with you. Intimately. But—I must admit, I am afraid." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bull's face crumple. Quickly, he added, "Not of you. And not of what you are— _who_ you are. It's me. I have too much affection for you. That has rarely worked in my favor."

He was grateful that Bull already knew about his former lovers and Rilienus and the men who would gladly fuck him but refused to meet him in the sun. The thought of discussing bad memories in this bed, draped in sweat and wine and stained sheets, was abhorrent. He didn't want to associate them with Bull.

"It could," Bull said. He draped his arm over the headboard and pushed his fingers into Dorian's hair. "It will, with me."

Bull sounded so sure of himself. So pleased. Dorian's throat tightened. He took the bottle and drank before he shuffled closer, into Bull's waiting embrace. Slowly, he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable without elbowing Bull anywhere sensitive.

"Yeah, there you go," Bull said, still twisting his fingers in Dorian's hair. He sounded a little giddy. "If you want, we can stop fucking and do that courting stuff first." He tapped his fingers against Dorian's head, counting off. "Favors, moonlight walks. Stealing kisses in broom closets." He leaned down, brushing his lips against Dorian's temple. "I'll buy your father some goats."

"Fereldans do goats," Dorian corrected. "And if you were courting me in Tevinter, you would have no say in it. Neither would I. Our parents would arrange a match and hope we didn't kill each other before the wedding. And they would be very upset to learn you can't birth my children."

"Good thing we're not in Tevinter," Bull said. He tugged Dorian closer and reached for the wine. "I'm guessing you want me to stop fucking other people. That's how this usually goes, right?"

"Generally," Dorian answered, shrugging. "I do like imagining you with other men. I like hearing about it. I certainly enjoyed watching." He tipped his head back, watching Bull drink. "Would you prefer I stay in your bed?"

Bull didn't answer right away. Dorian waited.

"I don't know," said Bull slowly. His brows furrowed. "I don't think I'd get jealous. Would you?"

"I haven't been," said Dorian. He hadn't been truly envious of the men who shared Bull's bed—more intrigued. He tried to imagine a night like before, with a friend or another stranger in Oliver's place. Or seeing Bull flirt with a soldier in the tavern. It didn't upset him, but he wasn't sure it thrilled him the way Bull did. He supposed he wouldn't really know until it happened, which had the chance to be terrible for everyone involved. "But I don't want to say that I won't ever be."

"Then it'll be just us for a bit," Bull suggested. "We'll take it slow. Talk a lot."

Dorian played his part and rolled his eyes.

"About our feelings," Bull added. "I might cry."

"I suppose I'll manage," said Dorian. He turned into Bull's chest, pressing a small kiss to the scarred skin. "Until then, would you like to pin me to this bed and fuck me?"

Bull said nothing, but he did gather him in one massive arm and plant him in the center of the bed. He straddled Dorian's thighs and leaned down, gathering his wrists together above his head.

"Like this?" Bull asked, as if he didn't know what he was doing. He pushed Dorian's hands into the bed.

Dorian grinned and stretched closer for a kiss.

* * *

In the morning, Dorian awoke in a strange bed with warm skin under his hand and an heavy arm around his back. He blinked, trying to gather his bearings. It was early; he could smell fresh bread and hear quiet curses from merchants in the courtyard below. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.

"I forgot how much you snore," Bull said.

"I don't," Dorian tried, but all that came out was a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't snore."

Bull chuckled and said nothing.

They stayed where they were, tucked alongside each other in bed. Dorian stretched, grimacing until everything cracked nicely. Bull's fingers brushed against his skin. More thunder; the storm was drawing closer.

"Our wager," Bull said. Dorian made a surprised noise; he'd nearly forgotten. "What'd you end with? I think today is the last day."

"Eighteen," Dorian answered. He covered his mouth, yawning. "Nineteen, if we're including you. And yours?"

Bull shrugged.

"Tell me," Dorian demanded. He prodded Bull's chest with his index finger. "I know you won."

"Maybe," said Bull, dragging the word out. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

"Don't be coy."

"It doesn't matter," said Bull. Laughter spilled from him in waves. "We didn't even decide on a prize for the winner."

"Oh," said Dorian, startled into a laugh. He covered his face with his hand, shoulders shaking. "We didn't, did we? How did we manage to forget that?"

"You were distracted," Bull said. He tugged Dorian's hand away from his face. Even in the dim light, Dorian could see his grin. "So was I."

"Distracted," Dorian repeated. He planted his elbow in the bed and leaned into his palm, looking up at Bull. "Yes, I suppose that's one way to put it. You are a distraction."

There was a loud crash of thunder. Dorian glanced at the ceiling.

"It's patched," Bull said, following his gaze. He drummed his fingers along Dorian's hip. "You wanna stay a little while longer?"

"We do have a lot of time to make up for," said Dorian, pushing himself up. He could not hide his grin.

Bull beckoned him closer. Outside, rain began to fall.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Oh, come forth into the storm and rout;_  
>  _And be my love in the rain._  
> 
> For those curious about the cow and fly joke:
>
>> A farmer was milking his cow one fine morning. He was just starting to get a good rhythm going when a fly flew into the barn and started buzzing around his head. Then the fly flew into the cow's ear. The farmer didn't think much about it, until the fly suddenly squirted out into his bucket.
>> 
>> It went in one ear and out the udder.  
> 
> 
>   
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_zythepsary), if you want to say hello or request additional tags.


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